. r iT •t 

< \ \ Jti i.>. r » ♦ 

» . f » f ? ; * ’ > 
f 'm i \ 

^V'ry^ 4 1 
♦ K s> <t • i 

M /« t < / , .'»» 

5 r j • ♦ i ^ * 

^ ^ f • • V 


^ ^ » V ^ f • V' 

.? vVli WMV 


\.9\i t/ W •< 

w ^ f •<: **: 


I .•!«,•:*<.. r 
i J < T f • ^ ^ ^ 


.« « « . ,, . 

•f • ; • t > a ^ 

» >♦ 

I# .i*s» 


• * • • 


f J.. 

t « 


. t . I ^ ♦ 4 ; 

j «' ' t • f •• 

1 I •• / . M 

* 4 « % V . 

V m a Ts • 


• • jI'I *1 *.• «* 

i 1 • ’ / *1 . . I J « I ; 6 

I . « t «';•#• i» 
t ‘ ^1—1 ^ i 

* « / I I • * « t* t « r .A 

. : • - I •/ i f ^ ‘ » 

• 4 M v' ' .• » • ^ « 4 ^ J 

» ' • / f /■’ . *. . *« .•’1. 


t I , ^ t I r .• - f f 
i M,'!, VI , j . 

‘ r Vi 

' 1 1- * • I • 


: « 1 1 t|l f ^ « 4 

I , y y 1 > i 1 ,> ‘ ? 


« / I i 2 ? ^ M j* I 

» I » I i ^ < r ._> 

'■ .5 •i>riH!' 

? 4 t . T .'• 


« % * “ » *- r* V 4 . *,. 

iA,# ••)«. -i 9 

7 r %> J < ' • - V ' V 

V * • 4' I ^ j f - f 

♦. ^>9 4 / 

I • j * J ‘ j . V 4 


• V 4* 4 

^ H • -y V y • ^ • • 


( > • A s : I *4 • 
i V : • . -< • I 

' < 5 ( . * ; - 4 • « 

M ’ • ') • 

• A* .-4 V » » • i X 

'V 7* « i » 1 r -> . < 


i t • j .• • j» 

- • / T .4 *4 . 5 J 

T*“'^ 'liJ ••? 

: % •• I • » ^ f > I • 

n f V . <4 V • 4 

• ^ ‘ \ 9 .i % • f * ^ ' 

4 t y » % • > f # . 

j r .< I %'«> *« i 


t r 

j r rj . t ^ ' 4 -• 

1 '1. 

>• / T .r 

v-^'.rv, «. 

’ifci 


V • • / 1 

A/4 


A . 4 

4* 


\ > « « 1 


' T * • 


.*-4 3 

• ^ f *' * 

% 9 • \ 

4 *4 »4 


;♦ ; t 4 

^ < f > 
k 4 II ; 
> « t « . 
¥ * » > 


>'yi' 


i* , fv.f 
^ I « * a 


f'i 

7 ;T 


I 0 % 
* I 4 
f > » 


< ‘4 
?• / 


1 \ 

*tV *» 

• V » 


v/\ 
I. •i 


i { 

•• t \ 


r.( 


9 A S V 1 

4 4 J * f 

I T ^ < 

V* I ^ • • 

I f i « • 

r .* w 4 


Vj\i 

WlKl 


l\t\l 

VVf 

» i i W 

; f .« ; 


-• * I - I 

r /'.* 


> '. r ’. ^ 




in 

4 


iV 
<U 


■t 

?• f 




'y 

likf 


^>f 

• • • 


« 't I 

> 4 V 


4 J-» . 

hn 


Hl| 

*i f ’ 4 i \'f ^ 9 

V? t ) 

¥ i ^ >4/ V r M '.\ i 

•>j;H' 
»/ 


H!-i 

!>:U 


Ih'^ 


kvv;* 

f. -# • n 

































CV -v V 

t, <r’ ' 



> ^ V C‘ .V 

ft > *>^\'= %. 4"^ :i 

\ - v-\^ * ^ ^ ^ ^ 

3 '^. 


0 * X 


0 -^“, »>='-. '3''**'V V''“‘ 



'<£r. 




'/. * 8 I A 



i 0 

-f^ 1 /" ^ 


r^ y 

ft 


0 N 0 ’ » ^ 

\' 

-V > 

A 




A' 


3 "" 

Ci^ .C* « 


V _ V'Sa 

. A^‘ o ^/^V 



o ^ \ '*' ^0 


"o 


> 1 ^ ^1 

^ r\ 

^ 9 \ \ ^ 


< 1 ^ 

y ^ S 




V o • 

A ■i' 

vr»'*»-' 'V "'.o^,-' 

I'l 33 

'^- 4^ % "tf^ , 

^ CS V c ^ ^ ip ^ 

0 '^ '* ^ a'" ' 

'"■ = o,. 

\v ^ ^%z/y/^ '- 

C*^ ^ y ''*SJ‘<S~' , ft ^ , ' 




^ vO 



V^.-.dW \* ^ 

-??* ,v. 

: 1 >\'^ 


..s^ '^^.. 


* 







o o' .= 

v* . ^ 



•>i* \X’ 


Kr ' V.*^ *" ^ 

^ ^ A.^ 4.^ ^nl//y^ ^ 

- ^ '. ■‘b 


^ ft 



.-i ~ -n*- ' 

9, 



S« t o' : 


t: .'^^'•^^ " 

w ^ 'V 


ft ft 


\‘ ^ * 0 A C‘ 

• c,'' 

.o"^ ex’"-, '^b. •* A'-'' .»' 


cf' *" *) N 0 ^ *' 


V O 


,V' -v 


„ - c'^‘ ■>• 

'”- = '^ ‘i^ o 

z 




ft 


'•,‘^ ■■ ■ -rs-. .' 

“•' <0 ^ '^-1- '' I ,.■<'• \- , ,•, <b '»■•'■* 0 

ix o °‘ ■^^y j^-''^f y ■" 

qn = s;^'iii:!k - v-i> 


A - 1 ^ 





♦ C' *- 


V> ^ « A ' 


r^ « rO\\\^r*w/ h t 

» .(j.> 

->► ■ ' '^4 " ^ ' A C#' ^ '•mj^ V. 

* * ' V ‘ ^ ■' 0’^^ c ° ^ '^b ' ' “ 

J^/i///^ ^ ■f’'. . < ^ 



■^o V 







^b, *'*77^-^'’^®’* 

'. .X, ,-i. " 

c.% ^r. ~ ^ ^ ^ 



<»• 

, * 'Ke \X’ 

'■ V* V 

i _ ’4^ •%' 




'a, 


-55 " 

^ - ■’ 



V 




¥ 



r 


\ 



f 


I 


$ 



1 





O' 



4 





h 





kU 




f 






LETTERS EROM HELL 



LETTERS FROM HELL 


GIVEN IN ENGLISH BY L. W. J. S. 


WITH A PREFACE BY 


GEORGE Macdonald, ll.d. 



' That he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment. 



NEW YORK 

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 

30 Lafayette Place 


1900 


B - /(,5’3 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1896, by 
FUNK & WAGNALLS, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at'Washington, D. Cj|. 


>17 2 -; 


PREFACE, 


The book, of which this is an English rendering, 
appeared in Denmark eighteen years ago, and was 
speedily followed by an English translation, now 
* long out of print, issued by the publishers of the 
present version. In Germany it appeared very re- 
cently in a somewhat modified form, and has there 
aroused almost unparalleled interest, running, I am 
told, through upwards of twelve editions in the 
course of a year. The present English version is 
made from this German version, the translator faith- 
fully following the author’s powerful conception, but 
[ pruning certain portions, recasting certain others, and 
I omitting some less interesting to English readers, in 
the hope of rendering such a reception and appre- 
ciation as the book in itself deserves, yet more 
probable in this country. 

It may be interesting to some to know that the 
title is not quite a new one, for just before the death 
of Oliver Cromwell a book was* published entitled 
Messages from Hell ; or Letters from a Lost Soul 


PREFACE. 


Vi 

This I have not had the opportunity of looking 
into ; but it must be a remarkable book, I do not 
say, if it equals, but if it comes half-way toward the 
fearful interest of this volume. 

My sole motive towards offering to write a pre- 
face to the present foim of the work was my desire 
to have it read in this country. In perusing the Ger- 
man a few months ago, I was so much impressed with 
»>s imaginative energy, and the power of truth in it, 
that I felt as if, other duties permitting, I would 
gladly have gone through the no slight labour of 
translating it myself ; — labour I say, because no good 
work can be done in any field of literature without 
genuine labour; and one of the common injuries 
between countries is the issue of unworthy trans- 
lation. That the present is of a very different kind, 
the readers of it will not be slow to acknowledge. 

I would not willingly be misunderstood ; when I 
say the book is full of truth, I do not mean either 
truth of theory or truth in art, but something far 
deeper and higher — the realities of our relations to 
God and man and duty — all, in short, that belongs 
tc the conscience. Prominent among these is the 
awful verity, that we make our fate' in unmaking 
ourselves ; that men, in defacing the image of God 
in themselves, construct for themselves a world of 
horror and dismay ; that of the outer darkness our 
own deeds and character are the informing or in- 
wardly creating cause ; that if a man will not have 


PREFACE. 


vU 

God, he never can be rid of his weary and hateful 
self. 

Concerning the theological forms into which the 
writer’s imaginations fall, I do not care to speak eithei 
for or against them here. My hope from the book 
is, that it will rouse in' some the prophetic imagina- 
tion, so that even from terror they may turn to the 
I Father of Lights, from whom alone come all true 
theories, as well as every other good and perfect gift. 

I One thing, in this regard, alone I would indicate — 
the faint, all but inaudible tone of possible hope, ever 
and anon vanishing in the blackness of despair, that 
now and then steals upon the wretched soul, and a 
little comforts the heart of the reader as he gathers 
the frightful tale. 

But there is one growing persuasion of the present 
age which I hope this book may somewhat serve to 
stem — not by any argument, but by such a healthy 
upstirring, as I have indicated already, of the imagina^ 
tion and the conscience. In these days, when men are 
so gladly hearing afresh that ‘ in Him is no darkness 
at all ;* that God therefore could not have created 
any man if He knew that he must live in torture to 
all eternity ; and that his hatred to evil cannot be 
expressed by injustice, itself the one essence of evil, 
— for certainly it would be nothing less than in- 
justice to punish infinitely what was finitely com- 
mitted, no sinner being capable of understanding 
the abstract enormity of what he does, — in these 


PREFACE. 


rfi: 


days has arisen another falsehood — less, yet very 
perilous; thousands of half- thinkers imagine that, 
since it is declared with such authority that hell is 
not everlasting, there is then no hell at all. 

I confess that, while I hold the book to abound 
in right genuine imagination, the art of it seems to 
me in one point defective : — not being cast in the 
shape of an allegory, but in that of a narrative of 
actual facts — many of which I feel might, may be 
true — the presence of pure allegory in parts, and 
forming inherent portion of the whole, is, however 
good the allegory in itself, distinctly an intrusion, 
the presence of a foreign body. For instance, it is 
good allegory that the uttering of lies on earth is the 
fountain of a foul river flowing through hell ; but 
in the presentation of a real hell of men and women 
and misery, the representation of such a river, with 
such an origin, as actually flowing through the fright- 
ful region, is a discord, greatly weakening the just 
verisimilitude. But this is the worst fault I have to 
find with it, and cannot do much harm j for the virtue 
of the book will not be much weakened thereby ; 
and its mission is not to answer any question of the 
intellect, to please the fancy, or content the artistic 
faculty, but to make righteous use of the element of 
horror ; and ii. this, so far as I know, it is un- 
paralleled. The book has a fearful title, and is far 
more fearful than its title ; '^t if it help to turn any 
away from that which alone is really horrible, the 


PREFACE. 


li 


doing of unrighteousness, it will prove itself the out- 
come of a divine energy of deliverance?) 

For my part, believing with my whole heart that 
to know God is, and alone is, eternal life, and that 
he only knows God who knows Jesus Christ, I would 
gladly, even by a rational terror of the unknown 
probable, rouse any soul to the consciousness that it 
does not know Him, and that it must approach Him 
or perish. 

The close of the book is, in every respect, — in that 
of imagination, that of art, that of utterance, — alto- 
gether admirable, and in horror supreme. Let him 
who shuns the horrible as a thing in art unlawful, 
take heed that it be not a thing in fact by him 
cherished ; that he neither plant nor nourish that 
root of bitterness whose fruit must be horror — the 
doing of wrong to his neighbour ; and least of all, 
if difference in the unlawful there be, that most 
unmanly of wrongs whose sole defence lies in the 
cowardly words : ‘ Am I my sister’s keeper I ’ 

George Mac Donald. 


tV 








/-I . 


»'** • • • 


•- ’Vr 


* i 




g p 

* ' > . •* 


~t ' H « ^ •’ 


Wtl* • *,.t' i.. ■f.’-.^Blt' •' f . 




it 


lisJ&'lM J'.'? ■ in -\02lp 


. ’J ▼.-* ^ » '‘*:. ; id 

■:. '^v.?.r -(^h 
■'• '.fiS ■ 




> <c U 

>* 


* V ‘ m \:.-%m. , 


- V ^ 


A V 




i\ 


». 




t-tf; 




5 ?^ 




k #* 


" ■■■,- i vi,->*^’ , 

■“'* ■ '■' 


- ■^•••’'^“-.■a‘>- ';-l; 

t.. 'i.'. jjfeaw- -•^•'''- 








“f -•• 


• •? w 


>Vr. 


C- ^ 




^ % 


• r 




i \ ••' 




I UifV’.v, 




'^1 


*A-^ 


mfl 


f * 


t 




m 


. fJ:' 








• . li.V ■ 


' *1 J» 




LETTERS FROM HELL 


LETTER 1. 

I FEi.T the approach of death. There had been a 
time of unconsciousness following upon the shiverings 
and wild fancies of fever. Once more I seemed to 
be waking ; but what a waking ! The power of life 
was gone : I lay weak and helpless, unable to move 
hand or foot ; the eyelids which I had raised, closed 
again paralysed ; the tongue had grown too large for 
the parched mouth ; the voice — my own voice — 
sounded strange in my ears. I heard those say that 
watched me — they thought I understood not — ‘ He 
is past suffering.’ Was I ? Ah me I I suffered 
more than human soul can imagine. I had a terrible 
conviction that I lay dying, death creeping nearer. 
I had always shrunk from the bare thought of it, but 
I never knew what it meant to be dying, never before 
that hour. Hour ? — nay, the hours drifted into days 
and the days seemed one awful hour of horror and 
agony at the boundary line of life. 

Where was faith ? I had believed once, but that 
was long ago. Vainly 1 tried to call back soma 
1 


2 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


shred of belief ; the poorest remnant of faith would 
have seemed a wealth of comfort in the deep anguish 
of soul that compassed me about There was noth- 
ing I could cJng to — nothing to uphold me. Like 
a drowning man I would have snatched at a straw 
even ; but there was nothing — nothing ! That is a 
terrible word ; one word only in all human utterance 
being more terrible still — too late ! too late ! Vainly 
I struggled ; an agonising fear consumed what was 
left of me. 

And that which I would not call back stood up 
before my failing perception with an unsought clear- 
ness and completeness of vision — the life which lay 
behind me, and now was ebbing away. But little 
good had I done in that life, and much evil. I saw 
it : ^ stood out as a fearful fact from the background 
of consciousness, [j. had lived a life of selfishness, 
ever pleasing my own desire. It was true, awfully 
true, that I had not followed the way of life, but the 
paths of death since the days even of childhood. 
And now I lay dying, a victim of my own folly, 
wretched, helplessly lost ! One after another my 
sins rose before me, crying for expiation ; but it was 
too late now — too late for repentance. Despair 
only was left ; the very thought of repentance had 
faded from the braim^ 

Not yet fifty years old, possessed of everything 
that could make life pleasant, and yet to die — it 
seemed impossible, though I felt that death even 
then had entered my being. There was death with- 
in me, and death without ; it spoke from the half- 
light of the sick chamber; it spoke from every 
feature of the watchers about me ^ it spoke from tbe 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


J 


churchyard silence that curtained my couch. It was 
a fearful hour, and I, the chief person, the centre of 
all that horror — every eye upon me, every ear 
listening for my parting breath. A shudder went 
through me : I felt as one already buried — buried 
j alive ! 

! One thought of comfort seemed left — I snatched at 
I it : it won’t go worse with you than with most people! 

I Is there anything that could have shown the depth 
I of my wretchedness more clearly than the fact that I 
could comfort myself with such miserable assurance ? 
Was it not the very cause of all my misery that I 
! had come by the broad way chosen by the many ? 

But what avails it now to depict the horrors of 
my last struggle, since no living soul could compre- 
hend my sufferings, or understand what I felt, on 
I entering the gates of death. Hell was within me. 

! No, no ; it was as yet but approaching. 

The end drew nigh. Once more I raised my 
eyes, and beheld the terror distorting my own features 
reflected from the faces that watched me. A deep- 
drawn sigh, a gurgling moan, a last convulsive 
wrench — and I was gone. ... 

An unknown sensation laid hold of me. Wha^ 
iwas this I felt ? Death had clutched my every fibre, ^ 
Iput I seemed released, free, strangely free ! Con- 
sciousness had been fading, but was returning even 
how, waking as from a swoo^ Where was I ? 
Mist and night, desolation and emptiness, enveloped 
me ; but the dismal space could not be called dark, 
for I could see, although there was not a ray of light 
to aid me. The first feeling creeping through me 
was a sensation of cold, of inward cold, rising from 


4 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the very roots of being ; chill after chill went through 
me ; I shuddered with chattering teeth. And an 
indescribable loathing seized me, born of the nauseous 
vapours that wrapt me about Where was I ? My 
mind reverted to the story of the rich man who, 
having died, lifted up his eyes in hell. Was I the 
rich man ? But that could not be ; for of him the 
story tells that he longed for a single drop of water 
to cool his tongue, and it says he was tormented in i 
flame. Now I was shivering — shivering with a fear- i 
ful cold. Yet it is true, nevertheless — terribly true — ; 
about the tormenting fire, as I found out ere long. j 
But consciousness, at first, seemed returned chiefly 
to experience an indescribable feeling of nakedness, j 
which, indeed, might explain the terrible cold assail- 
ing me. I still believed in my personal identity, j 
but I was merely a shadow of myself. The eye I 
which saw, the teeth which chattered, did not exist | 
any more than the rest of my earthly body existed, j 
All that was left of me was a shade unclothed to the ( 
skin — nay, to the inmost soul. No wonder I shivered ; ' 
no wonder I felt naked. But the feeling of naked- 
ness, strong as it was, excluded shameT 

It did not exclude a sense of utter wretchedness. 
All the manliness, my pride of former days, had left . 
me. Men despise abject cowards I know, but I had 
sunk below the contempt even of such a name.). 
Wretched, unutterably wretched, I was making my, 
entry into hell at the very time when my obsequies, 
no doubt, were about to be celebrated on earth with 
all the pomp befitting the figure I had played. What 
booted it that some priest with solemn chant should . 
count me blessed, assuring the mourners tiat I had ; 


LETTERS FROM HELu 


I 


I gained the realms of glory where tears are wiped 
away and sorrow is no more ? what booted it, alas ! 
since I, miserable I, was even then awaking to the 
pangs of hell ? Woe is me — ah, woe indeed 1 

J hastened onward. Was that earth, or what 
that touched my feet ? It was soft, spongy — a queer 
pavement ! Possibly it consisted of those good 
, intentions with which, as some one has pointed out, 
I the road to hell is paved. Walking felt strangely 
, unpleasant, but I got along, walking or flitting, I 
I know not which, nor yet how fast; on I went through 
i mist or darkness, or whatever it was. In the far 
distance, it might be some thousands of miles away, 
I perceived a glimmering light, and instinctively 
towards that light I directed my course. The mist 
seemed to grow less dense, forms took shape about 
me, but they might be merely the work of imagina- 
tion ; shadowy outlines of castles, palaces, and houses 
appearing through the mist. Sometimes it was as if 
my blind haste carried me right through one of these 
ghostly structures. After a while I began to dis- 
tinguish human phantoms flitting along, singly at 
first, but soon in greater number. I viewed them 
with horror, fully aware at the same time that they 
were merely beings like myself. Suddenly a troop 
of these spirits surrounded me. I burst from them, 
tremblingly, but only to be seized upon by another 
troop. I say seized upon, for they snatched at me 
eagerly, as if each one meant to hold me fast, shade 
though I was. Vainly they tried to detain me, 

I raising their cries incessantly. But what cries I 
: Their voices fell on my ear as a miserable wheezing, 
a dismal moaning. In my horror I gave a scream, 


6 


LETTERS FROM iELL. 


and lo! it was the same puny frightful sound 
There was such a whirr of voices, I could not pos- 
sibly make them out ; not, at least, beyond certain 
constantly repeated questions, like, ‘ Whence do you 
come?’ or, ‘What is the news?’ Poor me, what 
cared I for the news left behind ! And it was not 
so much the question, whence? but rather its awful 
opposite, whither hound ? that filled my soul. 

Luckily there were other miserable wanderers 
speeding along the same road, and while the swarm- 
ing troops tried to stop them I managed to escape. 
On I went, panting, not for bodily, but spiritual, 
distress, till at last I reached a lonely spot where 1 
might try to collect myself. 

Collect myself ! What was there left to collect ' 
— what availed it to consider, since I was lost, hope- 
lessly lost? 

Overpowered with that thought I sank to the 
ground. This, then, was what I had come to. I 
had died and found myself in hell, in the place of 
weeping and gnashing of teeth, of torment, alas, 
beyond conception. This, then, was the end of life’s I 
enjoyment. Why, ah why, had I been satisfied to 
halt between faith and unbelief, between heaven and 
hell, to the last moment ? A few short months ago, 
or, who knows, perhaps even a few days before the 
terrible end, it might have been time still to escape 
so dire a fate. But blindly I had walked to destruc- 
tion ; blindly ? — nay, open-eyed, and I deserved no 
better. 

This latter thought was not without a touch of 
bitter satisfaction. After all, even hell had some- 
ibing left that resembled satisfaction ! But, in truth, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I hated myself with a burning implacable hatred in 
spite of the selfjove which had accompanied me 
hither unimpaired^/ And remembering the manyV 
tb^called good intentions of my sinful life, I felt ^ 
ready to tear myself to pieces. In sooth, I myself 
had assisted diligently in paving the road to hell ! 

" But that feeling was void of contrition. I felt 
sad ; I felt ruined and miserably undone. I con- 
demned, I cursed myself ; but repentance was far 
from me. Oh, could I but repent ! I know there 
is such a thing, but the power of repenting is gone, 
gone f e r -ever. I did not at first see myself and my 
position as I do now. I only felt miserable and 
hopelessly lost. And though I hated myself, at the 
same time I pitied myself most deeply. Would that 
I could have wept ! Poor Dives sighed for a drop 
of water ; I kept sighing for a tear, a poor human 
tear, for somehow I felt that tears could unbind me 
from all my grief I consumed my powers in vain 
efforts to weep, but even tears were of the good 
things beyond me now. The effort shook my soul, 
3ut it was vain, vain ! 

I started suddenly ; there was a voice beside me, 
a young woman with a babe on her arm. 

‘ It is hopeless trying,’ she said, almost tenderly 
hei features even more than her voice bespeaking 
sympathy. ‘ I myself have tried it, and tried again ; 
but it’s no use. There is no water here, not as much 
even as a single tear.’ 

Alas, I felt she spoke the truth. The time was 
when I might have wept, but I would not ; now J 
longed to weep, but could not 

The young wom-^n — she was hardly more than a 


8 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


girl — sat down beside me. Indescribably ♦'ouching 
was the expression of sorrowing fondness with which 
she gazed upon the babe in her lap, a tiny thing 
which apparently had not lived many days. 

After a pause she turned again to me. It was 
not I, but the child which occupied her attention. 

‘Don’t you think my baby is alive?’ she said. 
‘ It is not dead, tell me. though it lies so still and 
never gives a cry.‘ 

To tell the truth I thought the child was dead, 
but I had it not in me to grieve the poor creature, so 
I said — 

‘ It may be asleep — babies do sleep a good deal.’ 

‘Yes, yes, it is asleep,’ she repeated, rocking the 
child softly. 

But I sat trembling at the sound of my own 
voice, which for the first time had shaped itself to 
words. 

‘ They say I killed my child, my own little baby/ 
she continued. ‘ But don’t you think they talk fool- 
ishly ? How should a mother find it in her heart to 
kill her child, her very own child ?’ and she pressed the 
little thing to her bosom with convulsive tenderness. 

The sight was more than I could endure. I rose 
and left her. Yet it soothed my own misery that 
for a moment I seemed filled with another’s grief 
rather than with my own. Her I could leave 
behind. I rose and fled but my own wretchedness 
followed on my heels. 

Away I went, steering towards the distant light 
It was as though a magic power drove me in that 
direction. To the right and left of me the realms of 
mist appeared cultivated and inhabited. Strange. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


9 


fantastic shapes and figures met my view, but they 
seemed shadows only of things and men. Much 
that I saw filled me with terror, while everything 
added to my pain. By degrees, however, I began to 
understand that wretched negativeness of existence. 
I gathered experience as I went on, but what ex- 
perience ? Let me bury it in sil enc^ One incident 
I will record, since it explains how I first came to 
comprehend that horror-teeming state of things. 

I was stopping in front of one of those trans- 
parently shadowy structures ; it appeared to be a 
tavern. In the world I used to despise such localities, 
and would never have demeaned myself by entering 
one. But now it was all the same to me. They were 
making merry withi n. I saw, — drinking, gambling, 
and_what not. But it was an awfuT' merriment in 
which these horrible shades were engaged. One of 
them, to all appearance the landlord, beckoned me 
to enter ; an inviting fire was blazing on the hearth, 
and, shivering as I was, I went towards it straightway. 

‘Can’t you come in by the door?’ snarled the 
landlord, stopping me rudely. 

Abashed I stammered, ‘ I am so cold, so miser- 
ably cold !’ 

‘ The more fool you for going naked !* cried the 
fellow, with an ugly grin. ‘ We admit well-dressed 
people as a rule.’ 

Involuntarily I thought of my soft Turkish 
dressing-gown and its warm belongings, when, lo ! 
scarcely had the idea been shaped in my brain than 
I found myself clothed in dressing-gown, smoking- 
cap, and slippers. At the same time my nakedness 
was not ccvere 1, and I felt as cold as before. 


to 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


( I moved towards the hearth, putting my trembling 
\ hands to the grate ; but the blaze emitted no warmth 

it might as well have been painted on canvas. 

I turned away in despair. The merry-making 
shades laughed harshly, calling me a fool for my 
pains. One of them handed me a goblet. Now I 
had never been a drunkard, but that feeling of 
indescribable emptiness within me prompted me to 
seize the cup, lifting it to my lips eagerly that I 
might drain it on the spot. But alas the nothing- 
ness ! my burning desire found it an empty cup, 
and I felt ready to faint. 

My horror must have expressed itself in my 
features, for they laughed louder than ever, grinning 
at my disappointment. I bore it quietly. There 
was something frightfully repulsive in their unnatural 
merriment, cutting me to the soul. 

The carousal continued ; I, with wildly-confused 
^ ideas, watching the strange revelry. 

Recovering myself, I turned to the churlish 
yjandlord : 

OWhat house is this?’ I asked, with a voice as 
unpleasant and gnarling as his own. 

‘ It’s my house !’ 

That was not much of information, so I asked 
again after a while : * How did it come to be here 

the house I mean — and everything?’ 

The landlord looked at me with a sneer that 
plainly said, ‘You greenhorn, you!’ vouchsafing 
however presently : ‘ How it came here ? — why, I 
thought of it, and then it was.’ 

That was light on the subject. ‘ Then the house 
is merel) an idea?’ I went on. 


LETVERS FROM HELL. 


II 


‘Yes, of course ; what else should it be?* 

I * Ah, indeed, youngster,’ cried one of the gamblers, 

: turning upon me, ‘ here we are in the true land of 
i^magic, the like of which was never heard of on earth. 
AVe need but imagine a thing, and then we have 
Hurrah, I say, ’tis a merry place!’ and with frightful 
laughter that betokened anything but satisfaction, 
he threw the dice upon the table. 

Now I understood. The house was imaginary, 
the fire without warmth, the tapers without light, 
the cards, the dice, the drink, the torn apron 
even of the landlord — ev^giything, in short, existed 
merely in imagination. jOne thing only was no 
empty idea, but fearful reality — the terrible necessity 
which forced these shadowy semblances of men 
to appear to be doing now in the spirit the very 
things they did in the body upon earth. For this 
reason the landlord was obliged to keep a low, 
tavern ; for this reason the company that gathered 
there must gamble, drink, and swear, pretending 
wanton merriment, despair gnawing their hearts the 
while. 

I looked at myself. This clothing then which 
i could not cover me, far less warm my frozen limbs, 
i was but the jugglery of desiring thought. ‘ Lie I 
falsehv)od 1 away 1 ’ I cried. Oh that I could get 
away from myself! Alas! wretch that I was, I 
could at best escape but the clothing which was no 
clothing. I tore it from me, rushing away in head- 
long flight, conscious only of my own miserable 
nakedness, fiendish peals of laughter following me 
like the croaking of multitudinous frogs. 

How long I wandered, restless spirit that I was 


13 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


T cannot tell. If there were such a thing as division 
of time in hell, doubtless it would be imaginary lik* 
everything else. The distant light was still my 
goal. But so far from reaching it, I seemed to 
perceive that it grew weaker and weaker. This, at 
first, I took to be some delusion on my part, but the 
certainty presently was beyond a doubt, ^he light 
did decrease till at last it was the mere ghost of a 
radiance ; it was plain I should find myself in utter 
darkness before long.' , 

It was a fact, then, scarcely to be believed, but 
a fact nevertheless, that, miserable as I was, I could 
be more miserable still. I shrunk together within 
myself, anxious, as far as lay with me, to escape the 
doings of the dead. People on earth may think that 
even in Hades it must be a blessing rather than a bane* 
to occupy one’s thoughts with the affairs of others.,- 
Oh, happy mortals, happy with all your griefs and' 
woes, you judge according to your earthly capacities.ii 
There is no such blessing here, no occupying one’s 
thoughts against their own dire drift ! And as for 
diversion, that miserable anodyne for earthborn 
trouble, it is a thing of the past once you have closed 
your eyes in death. 

It is impossible for me to tell you, since you 
could not comprehend, to what extent a man here 
may shrink together within himself. fBe it enough 
to say I cowered as a toad in a holeTTiugging my 
miserable being, till I was roused by a groan coming 
from somewhere beside me. I started affrighted and 
looked about. The darkness being still increasing^ 
I, with difficulty, distinguished another cowering 
fig^kie looking at me furtively. The face was strangely 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


*3 


distorted, and the creature had a rope round its 
neck, the hands being constantly trying to secure the 
ends ; at times also a finger would move round the 
neck as if to loosen the rope. The figure looked at 
me with eyea of terror starting from the head, but 
not a word would cross the lips. It was plain I 
must make the beginning. 

‘The light is decreasing,’ I said, pointing in the 
direction whence the pale glimmer emanated. ‘ I 
fear we shall be quite in the dark presently.’ 

‘Yes,’ said the figure, with a gurgling voice ; ‘it 
will be night directly.’ 

‘ How long will it last ?’ 

‘ How should I know ? It may be some hours, 
it may be a hundred years.’ 

‘ Is there such difference of duration ?’ 

* We don’t perceive the difference ; it is always 
long, frightfully long,’ said the figure, with a dismal 
moan. 

‘ But it is quite certain, is it not, that daylight 
will reappear?’ 

‘ If you call that daylight which we used to call 
dusk upon earth, we never get more. I strongly 
suspect that it is not daylight at all ; however, 
that matters little. I see you are a newcomer 
here’ 

I could but answer with a sigh, ‘ Yes, quite new ; 
I died but lately.’ 

‘A natural death?’ queried the spectre. 

‘ To be sure ; what else ?’ 

That ‘ what else ’ evidently displeased the crea- 
ture ; the distorted face looked at me with a horrible 
gnmace, and there was silence. 


14 LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I, for my part cared little to continue so unpleas- 
ant a conversation, but the spectre resumed ere long 
‘ It ts hard to be doomed to carry one’s life it 
one’s hands There is no rest for me anywhere ; 1 
am for ever tiydng to escape ; there is not a creature 
but wants to hang me. Indeed, you are capable ol 
doing it yourself, I see it in your eyes ; only being 
fresh here you are too bewildered as yet with youi 
own fate to be really dangerous. Do you see the 
ends of this rope ? It is my one aim to prevent 
people getting hold of them, for if once they succeed 
I shall be hanged in a jiffy.’ 

The spectre paused, going on presently : 

‘ It is but foolishness and imagination I know 
for since no one can take what I have not got, hov^ 
should any one take my life? But I am utterly 
helpless, and whenever this foolish fear possesses me 
afresh, I must run — run as though I had a thousand 
lives to lose — as though hell were peopled with mur- 
derous hangmen,’ ■ 

The spectre moaned, again trying to loosen thg; 
rope with a finger, and the moaning died away into! 
silence. 

We sat, but not for long. I made some move-* 
ment with the arm nearest my wretched neighbour 
Evidently he imagined I was for seizing the rope, 
the ends of which he was tightly grasping, and, liku 
a flash of lightning, he vanished from my side. 


LETTER 11. 


! STAYED where I was, and soon found myself buried 
in darkness. Did I say soon ? Fool that I am ! 
How can I tell what length of time passed before it 
became absolutely dark ? One thing only I know, 
that darkness grew with increasing rapidity and den- 
sity till it was complete at last. At last ? — when but 
a moment since I called it soon ? How unfit I am 
to judge at all ! 

How shall I describe the darkness ? Mortal man 
could never conceive it. Of very great darkness 
people are apt to say it is to be felt, or to be cut 
with a knife. But even such manner of speech will 
not define the night of hell. Darkness here is so 
dense, so heavy, it oppresses poor souls as with the 
weight of centuries ; it is as though one were wedged 
in between mountains, unable to move, unable to 
breathe. It is a night beyond all earthly concep- 
tion ; perhaps that is why the Bible calls it the outer 
darkness, which, I take it, means uttermost. 

Thus I was sitting in the narrowest prison, shiver- 
ing with cold, trembling with terror, miserable, 
wretched beyond utterance ; I, who but a short 


i6 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


while since had the world at my feet, enjoying lifeJ 
and the riches and pleasure thereof. Shivering with| 
cold — yes ; but, I must add, consumed with an inwarc^ . 
fire. 

Terrible truth ! That the torment of hell should 
consist in an awful contrast — cold without and a con- 
suming fire within, compared to which the burning 
sands of Sahara even seem cool as the limpid wave. 
And what shall I say of the unutterable anguish — 
hell’s constant fear of death ? For with the growing 
darkness a growing fear falls upon the tortured soul, 
agonising as the pangs of death. Happy if they 
were but pangs of death ! but there is no dying here, 
only a continuous living over again in the spirit ol 
that most dread of earthly conflicts, a panting for 
life, as it were, a wailing and moaning, with pitiful 
cries for mercy, cries for help, but they fall back upon 
the soul unheard — unheard ! 

Do you know what it is to be lying on a bed of 
misery night after night, courting sleep in vain, worn 
with affliction, trouble, or grief? Let me tell you, 
then, that this is sheer bliss as compared with the 
sufferings of a night here, endless in pain as it seems 
in duration. For at last, poor earthly sufferer, your 
very sorrows become your lullaby ; nature claims 
her due ; you sleep, and sleep drowns your woe, : 
transfiguring it even with rosy-fingered dreams, re- 
storing you to strength the while. And you awake 
to find that a new day has risen, with grace and ; 
hope, and smiling with fresh endeavour. 

Happy mortal — ay, thrice happy — whatever your ! 
lot may be, however poor and sorrowful you may 
deem it For remember that as compared with u» 


17 


LETTERS /ROM HELL. 


here, the most miserable beneath the sun might call 
themselves blessed, if only they could free themselves 
from delusion and take their troubles for what they 
are. For, strange as it may sound, in the world, 
which we know to be a world of realities, trouble 
more or less consists in imagination — * thinking 
makes it so;* whereas here, where all is shadow 
land nothingness, misery alone is real. In the world 
so much depends on how one takes trouble ; in hell 
there is but one way of bearing it — the hard, unyield- 
ing must. 

Oh to be able to sleep, to forget oneself though 
but for a moment, — what mercy, what bliss ! But 
why do I add to my pangs by thinking of the 
impossible? I seem to be weeping, as I write this, 
bitter tears, but they blot not the unhappy record ; 

I like leaden tears they fall back upon the soul, adding 
to her weight. Did I say tears ? Ah, believe me 
it is but a fashion of speaking ! 

Thus I sat, spending the endless night — a nigh! 
j of death I had better call it, since it differs so terribly 
! from the worst nights I knew on earth. I suffered 
an agony of cold, but within me there burned tht 
quenchless torment of sin and sinful desire — a two* 
j fold flame, I know not which was strongest ; it seized 
upon me alternately, my thoughts adding fuel to the 
terrible glow. 

My sins ! What boots it now to remember them, 
but I must — I must. The life of sin is behind me, 
finished and closed ; but with fearful distinctness it 
lies open to my vision, as a page to be read, not 
merely as a whole, but in all its minutest parts. I 
seem to have found it out now only that I am a 
% 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


i8 


sinner, or rather that I was one, for on earth I some- 
how did not know it. The successful way in whi 
I managed to suppress that consciousness almo 
entirely seems to prove, if not my own, at any rat 
the devil's consummate skill. I say almost entirely 
I could not stifle it altogether, but I managed to! 
keep it in a prison so close that it troubled m( 
rarely. And if conscience at times made efforts tc 
be heard, the voice was so gentle that I never hesi 
tated to disregard it. Yes, Satan succeeded so wel 
with me that I never thought of my sins, reall) 
forgot them as though they were not. 

But now — now ? that seeming forgetting truly 
was the devil’s deceit. My sins are all present now ; 

I see them, every one of them, and none is wanting ji 
and indeed their number is far greater than I couldl 
have believed possible. A thousand trivial things — | 
not trifles here, though I once believed them such — I 
raise their front in bitter accusation. Life lies before 
me as an open book, a record of minutest detail, and] 
what seemed scarce worth the notice once has now] 
assumed its own terrible importance — sin succeeding] 
sin, and the remainder folly. My anguished souli 
turns hither and thither, writhing and moaning ; not 
a spot is left where she might rest — not a moment’s 
peace to soothe her; shut in with sins innumerable,' 
she is the prey of despair. 

And yet I never was what the world calls a bad 
man. I was selfish, but not void of natural pity ; 
having a carnal mind, but not barren of intellectual 


tastes ; ruled by strong appetites, but too much of a 
gentleman to give open cause of offence. I was even 
good-natured, helpful and kind, where it did not 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


19 


clash with some dominant passion. Indeed I was 
not only a general favourite, but enjoyed universal 
respect In short, I was a man whom the world 
could approve of, an*^ if I cared notjtO’ S|rve the 
world, the ’ more was 1 desirotJfe ft ^cruW serv^ me. 
Without faith, and 'following no aim, I lived to enjoy 
the moment Yet I was not always without faith. 
There had been a time, in the far-off days of child- 
hood when I believed lovingly, ardently ; but on 
entering the world faith, having no root, faded as a 
flower in the noonday heat And once again, having 
reached a certain point in my life, it seemed' to 
revive, to blossom anew ; but everything failing, it 
also failed, and never yielded fruit At the same 
time I had never quite plucked it out of the heart 
To my dying hour I had a feeling that some- 
thing of the God-seeking child was latent within 
me, of the childhood in which I began, but never 
continued. 

In the days of manhood I followed passion. Do 
you care to inquire? Fashionable amusement, the 
excitement of fast living, the enjoyment of beauty, 
piquant adventure, the pleasure of the senses in short 
— that is what I lived for. 

Oh the fire within me — kmdled long ago, in the 
days even of bodily life ! It did not then cause the 
pain it causes now, or rather — since fire cannot be 
dissociated from suffering — it burned with a pain 
ak!a to delight. But -^jow, alas ! there is a consum- 
ing emptiness within, desire feeding upon imagina- 
tion, feeding upon my very soul unappeasably. 
To be burnt alive would be as nothing compared 
to that torment, for then the hope would remain 


20 


LETTERS FRO H HELL, 


that there must be an end. But there is no end 
now, no hope of deliverance. 

And yet I have not confessed all the pangs 
of that terrible first night. I am ashamed to own 
what I may not hide ! For, apart from all those 
horrors common to all, I have a grief to myself alone j 
— most of those here have a load of pain pertaining | 
to themselves only — an aching sorrow weighing upon i 
my soul distinctly separate from all general woes ; j 
it has not left me for a moment since first I opened i 
my eyes in hell. It is but a little story, but one of i 
those experiences which are of far deeper importance 
in our lives than would seem credible. 

My thirty-first birthday found me in a village 
tavern away from home. After more than a year’s 
absence — the journey extending as far as the Holy 
Land — I was returning the unhappiest of mankind, 
bowed down with mourning, and ill bearing the hurt 
of disappointed passion. Three we had been on 
setting out, two only returning. Journeying home- 
ward we stopped on the road, a sudden storm obliging 
us to seek shelter in a common inn. 

There are strange things in life. Having for 
months been dead to all sympathy, it was so ordered 
that I should find here an object to rouse me from 
my stupor — to call me back to life. It was but a 
ragged boy, some eight or nine years old, whose 
mother had been one of a troop of strolling actors. 
For some reason or other the company had broken 
up, and her body presently was found in a neigh- 
bouring swamp. He was a poor little fellow, forlorn 
and neglected, and as shy as a wild thing of the field, 
disconsolate in his grief. He had loved tenderly, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


21 


passionately — so had I ; he had lost all he had loved 
— so had 1. 

But there was more. The boy’s nature fascinated 
me strangely. His impetuosity, his stand-off pride, 
even his intractable wildness, somehow struck a con- 
genial chord in my own deepest soul. I felt as if I, 
I only, could understand him ; as if I, in his place, 
would have been just like him. And despite his rags 
he was a lovely boy. Those dark tearful eyes had 
an expression that went to the heart ; those un- 
combed locks overhung features which, without being 
regularly handsome, were intensely attractive. In 
short, it was one of those boy- faces which Murillo 
loved to paint. What shall I say, but that the child 
from the first moment caught my heart ? As no one 
cared to have him, I took him with me. 

His mother had gone by the name of Rosalind. 
The boy just called her ‘ mother,’ and knew no other 
name. But the appellation Rosalind to all appear- 
ance pertained to the actress only, and there was 
nothing left to give a clue to her identity. If there 
had been anything the poor creature took it with her 
to her watery grave. The only thing leaving a faint 
hope of eventual discovery was the figure of a swan 
surrounded by unintelligible hieroglyphics imperish- 
ably etched upon the boy’s right arm. He went by 
the common name of Martin, and spoke a jargon, a 
jumble rather of several languages, but fraught with 
unmistakable echoes of my own native tongue. 

I took him with me. Three we were on setting 
out, three returning — but what a change ! 

He grew up in my care, a nameless foundling. 
I never discovered the faintest light to unravel the 


22 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


mystery of his birth ; but I always believed that the 
swan upon his arm sooner or later would assist in 
explaining his extraction. Martin hardly ever 
quitted my presence, and people said I had adopted 
him by way of a plaything. Maybe there was some 
truth in this. The boy’s lower nature blossomed 
luxuriantly, at the cost, surely, of his moral develop- 
ment. Conscious of force, and exuberant with un- 
shaped longings, passionate and self-willed, he was 
nowise easily managed. I am ashamed to say I 
sometimes took an evil delight in playing with the 
child’s slumbering passions, now exciting them to 
full liberty, now reigning them up suddenly. Still, 
he was more than a plaything to me : he ruled my 
heart. This may partly be accounted for by the 
fact that I saw my own nature reflected in the 
boy’s ; perhaps, also, the strange affection was merely 
fancy -born, the whim of a moment growing into 
habit. That much is certain, I loved the boy. 
And I could . count them on my fingers, I fear, 
whom I loved beside myself. 

The child responded to my affection ardently, 
passionately. It sometimes happened, when I had 
teased him in ungenerous amusement, and he, stung 
to fury, refused submission, that I, in assertion of 
power, would place my foot upon his neck, when 
he would humble himself suddenly, and, clasping my 
knees, would wail for forgiveness. At such moments 
he would have borne the vilest cruelty, patiently 
hoping for a return of tenderness. He whom the 
direst punishment at times could not move, now 
spent himself in tears at my feet, looking to me as 
to the one soul beside him in the universe. That 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


23 


love of the child’s touched me deeply, appealing to 
all that was best and truest in my heart. We would 
make peace again and renew the bond of affection, 
which was tied all the faster for such incidents. 
Thus lOve moved between us, swelling in tides, now 
of wrath, now of tenderness, till suddenly I dis- 
covered that the boy had grown — grown to be a 
man in my likeness, strong in the flesh and of 
powerful self-love. 

And the time was which ripened into a crisis be- 
tween us, worse than anything that had happened 
before. He had defied me where I could nevei 
brook defiance, and I cast him from me. How could 
the fellow dare to rival me in woman’s favour ! 

He left me, insulted but unconquered, and burn- 
ing with scorn. I should never see him again, he 
said ; and he was the man to do as he threatened. 
Some time after I received a letter from him, offer- 
ing me the alternative of yielding to him or losing 
him — he would go to the Turks, to the devil, he 
said. I took no notice of that ultimatum, but 
demanded his entire surrender, unconditionally. 
Time passed and I began to think I had lost him. 
It was a fear which troubled me, preyed upon me ; 
for whatever our disagreement, I loved him still. 
And if indeed he were lost, my heart told me that I 
— I had worked his ruin. 

And then I fell ill of that last illness, ending in 
death. There came a second letter against all 
expectation, mysteriously expressed but plain of 
:mport. He wrote humbly, gently, as I had never 
known him. 

He entreated me to see him ; he wc’ild corn© 


u 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


back to me a repentant child. He had found out 
that which would heal every breach between us : a 
Higher Power had spoken. There was mention of 

in the letter, but all was so broken, so ambigu- 
ously expressed, that it left me quite in the dark as 
to whether his discovery concerned himself or her. 

The letter remained unanswered ; I was too ill 
to write, and cared not to trust any third person 
with a message between us. 

What, then, was his discovery to have worked 
such a change in him ? and whom did it concern, 
himself or her? That question troubled me to my 
dying moment, and who knows but that it proved a 
nail also in my coffin. Erinnys-like it pursued me 
to very hell, adding more than anything else to mjr 
torment here. As a live coal it burns upon my soul 
Wha^ was it about him or about her ? And there 
are other questions : How did it go with him when 
I had cast him off — I, whom alone he loved and 
knew upon e?rth? Was I indeed the cause of hii 
ruin } Alas 1 these things are a hell in hell I 


LETTER III. 


How long I sat, shut in with myself and darkness, 
•how long that terrible night continued, I cannot tell 
— maybe a year, maybe some hours only. This 
only I know, that in the space of that single night 
I lived over again the whole of my earthly life, 
and what inconceivable horrors are included in this 
statement ! 

Light broke at last, but oh how slowly ! The 
walls of darkness seemed to shift, making way for 
the faintest streak of dawn. This time of expecta- 
tion, of hope — if so I may call it — was the least 
painful time I had yet known in hell. And as I 
waited, longed for the returning light, a shadow, as 
it were, of forgetfulness wrapped me about. Ah, 
surely forgetfulness is the one state of bliss to be 
imagined here ! Did I speak of light ? Alas it is 
only less of darkness — light there is none in hell. 
And forgetfulness is not real, but illusive here. 

But poor as the light was, it roused me to some- 
thing like love of existence even. I gathered up 
my wretched being and went my way, following the 
direction of the breaking dawn. H dw long I moved, 


26 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


or how far, is of no consequence. The terrors of 
hell were about me. Presently, however, I reached 
a spot where I could rest. Did I say rest ? Once 
for all, let me beg you not to be misled by such 
meaningless expressions — meaningless here, and prov- ' 
ing old habit merely. In this place of anguish rest, 
in the sense you take it, naturally is impossible ; all 
I meant to say is that I reached a spot where the 
pressure of motion quitted me for a while, and I 
stopped. 

It is strange how soon I came to understand my 
surroundings, how soon I found my way among the 
vain appearances and the wretched nothingness about 
me. Instinctively I adapted myself to what I saw, 
doing as others did — in a manner however, shaped 
by my own individuality. I knew I was only 
adding my paltry share, that hell might be, what 
it is, a caricature of the world and her doings.. I 
knew, moreover, that I was being mocked the while, 
a very fool of vanities. 

You must know, then, that each wretched being j 
here is moved by an irresistible impulse to imitate 
his life on earth, to continue what in sinful folly he ’ 
worked in that life. And, strange to say, as I have 
already hinted, we can all obtain here what we like ; 
one need but think of anything, and there it is. 
Passion and wrongful desires rule here as they ic 
in the world, only the more horribly, being void of J 
substance. In the world they are clothed — clothed ^ 
in a semblance of beauty even ; lawless and per- j 
nicious though they are, they at least own the | 
garment of nature. But here they are mere skele- | 
tons, unclcthed of the flesh, an insult to nature, i 


.r* Tfnuitun I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


27 


continuing in the evil bent of former habit, yet 
incapable of aught but showing their miserable 
nakedness. For the imaginings of hell are hollow 
and empty, void of truth and reality, bereft of all 
means of satisfaction. And yet the very punish' 
ment of hell consists in this, that we are driven to 
conform to this maddening unreality, this death- 
breathing nothingness. No matter how deeply con- 
scious we are of the vanity of our doings — no matter 
how we loathe them — they have come to be our 
masters ; we are driven, helplessly driven, to be for 
ever trying to be what we were on earth. 

Supposing, then, that a number of spirits agree 
we will have a town here, that town straightway 
appears on the scene ; or if others say, let us have a 
church here and a theatre and a public park, or 
woods and a lake and mountains, it is all there as 
soon as imagined. And not only that each one sees 
for himself what he has called up in vain desire : it 
is seen by all with whom he comes into contact. 
But everything is shadowy — nay, less than shadowy : 
it is empty conceit. Such a state naturally includes 
change upon change, incessant unrest ; this also is 
vanity. 

Neither is there any lack of assisting spirits to 
carry into effect any desired show. Does any one 
here wish to set up an establishment, to live in 
style, as the phrase went on earth, he is straightway 
surrounded by faithless stewards, drunken butlers, 
thieving servants of all kinds. If you imagine that 
no one would care to be a servant here, you are 
mistaken, for the inhabitants of hell, in a mere 
outward way also, carry on the habits of life. Is 


28 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


there any one here who likes to general an army, 
he will find plenty of bloodthirsty rufifians to obey 
his behests, provided indeed he was a general in 
his days gone by ; for, mind you, without a name 
a man even here could not make his way. 

Upon this information you will not be surprised 
to learn that I have a pleasant abode here not far 
from town, the image of my own old country-house, 
with park and river to please my fancy ; that I am 
a gentleman, and see much company. I frequent 
fashionable society now as formerly, since it yields 
me gratification, both private and public. Few 
men knew and drained the sources of enjoyment 
more thoroughly than I did. But now ? — ah, pity 
me not, for your pity cannot alter the fact. This 
then is the misery of hell for me ; I am hungering 
after enjoyment, pure or impure, but there is no 
sense left to gratify ; reality has vanished, the greed 
only remains. Is it not madness ? 

And let me whisper it to you, I am daily meeting 
friends and acquaintances ; but I shall not betray 
them, remembering how well-bred the world is. It 
would be a shame to hurt the feelings of ladies and 
gentlemen of respectable position by insinuating that 
any of their relatives are here. Let them call their 
depart ’id ones blessed : it will not lessen the torments 
they endure. 

Shall I venture upon a local description of hell ? 
I doubt I shall not be able, but will make the 
attempt. 

Hell has its own geography, out no one can tell 
how far its realm extends ; it is infinite — that maybe 
is the most cd rect estimate to be given. I believe 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


29 


earth, sun, and moon, and all the planets, would not 
nearly fill it. But what foolish talk, there being 
neither space nor time here. And as for boundaries? — 
on one side only, far, far away, hell has its boundary ; 
whether any one ever reached it I cannot tell. 

In the direction of that pale twilight, which de- 
creases and increases alternately, there is a great 
gulf, a fathomless abyss, separating hell from Paradise. 
It is Paradise whence that radiance proceeds. And 
from the abyss, at regular intervals apparently, dead 
darkness gushes forth, repressing the faint far-off 
light of heaven, till the last ghostly glimmer is gone. 
Then it is night with us, the abyss appearing as a 
lake of molten fire, but its flames are void of light- 
giving power. That is Satan’s residence, and the 
abode of damned souls. I speak of it with fear and 
trembling. ^Gradually the abyss, as it were, eats up 
its own darkness, the fair light reappearing and 
growing, till we see it as a tender radiance, clear as 
the twilight of a summer morn!) And at times, as 
though a curtain of mist and cloud were suddenly 
rent asunder, a cataract of light bursts forth victor- 
iously, overflowing from the heart of glory. Hell 
stands dazzled, struck to the core as it were. For. 
in beauty and bliss eternal a vision of Paradise is 
given to the damned ones — no, not the damned ones, 
for though cast into hell we are not yet judged ; it 
is given to those who, like the rich man, lift up their 
eyes in torment. And it is not only Paradise we 
see, but the blessed ones who dwell there. 

All this I have learned, — as yet I have not seen it 
But now, since dawn is increasing, we seem to be 
nearing that hcur, — sh all I say that happy hour ? ah 


30 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


no — most dread ! most dread I I cannot tell how 
long the light goes on increasing or decreasing ; 
there is no judging of the length of dawn, as there is 
no judging of the duration of night itself. Accord- 
ing to human ideas, it would seem to be a space of 
several years. The vision of Paradise, I feel sure, 
fills but a moment, but some call it long, fearfully 
long. Shall I rejoice' to see that moment, or must 
I dread it? 

Again, hell has a river, the waters of which are 
heavy, dark, and muddy. You will be thinking of 
the waters of Lethe. Ah no, my friend, there is no 
Lethe here whence souls might draw forgetfulness : 
that is a happy myth ; but the river I speak of is 
real, terribly real. It is fed by the falsehood and 
injustice of the world ; every lie, every wrong, helps 
to swell it. That is why its waters are so turbid, so 
fearfully foul, looking like clotted blood at times. 
And sometimes, when the world is more wicked than 
usual, the river rises and floods its banks, leaving 
stench and pestilence behind it It is scarcely to be 
endured. But we, hardened spectres of hell, we 
endure. 

Sometimes, I am told, it rains here and snows, 
but not so often as one would think. It happens 
when folly and vanity upon earth overflow their 
measure. The world can stand a good deal, we 
know, but there are times when even the world has 
too much of it The surplus then will drop into 
hell, and we say, by way of former fashion of speech: 
Look, it rains ; or. Behold it snows ! 

There is in hell not only a certain natural >uc 
cession of time, but also something of social and 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 31 

political order. Families herd together, and souls of 
one and the same century like to congregate. And 
there is a kind of progressive development. The 
most recent arrivals, as a rule, take the lowest place, 
advancing to make room for fresh troops appearing. 
Those who in the world were of one way of thinking, 
or alike in manner of acting, soon meet here, though 
of different nationality or separate centuries. Thus 
there is here a town of injustice, called also the town 
of politicians; there is a town of the Holy Inquisition ; 
a gigantic city of Jews, of Mormons; a town of 
Antediluvians, and many others. ♦ 

I begin to understand the moving-springs of hell. 
It is insatiate desire on the one hand, and remorse 
on the other — I had almost said sorrow ; but that is 
too sweet a grace, admitting of sorrow for sin, for 
opportunity wasted, and that is unknown here ; it 
is a dull flinty grief, a mere wailing for pain. The 
punishment of hell is twofold, but after all it is the 
self-same retribution. Some are driven continuously 
to brood over the same evil passions they indulged 
in on earth, satisfaction alone being absent ; or with 
horror and loathing are obliged again and again to 
commit in the spirit the self-same crimes that polluted 
their days in the flesh. The miser forever is dream- 
ing of riches, the voluptuary of uncleanness, the 
glutton of feasting, the murderer of his bloody deed. 
Others, on the contrary, are pursuing the very things 
they neglected on earth ; they know it is hopeless, but 
pursue them they must. Thus men of unjust deal 
ing are anxiously trying to right the wrong, the un- 
merciful to do deeds of charity, the unnatural parent 
to live for her ch’ldren, the suicide to prolong his days. 


32 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


But whatever we suffer, our torment is not to be j 
viewed in the light of final punishment — that is com- \ 
ing — we await the day of doom ; no, it is merely the i 
natural consequence of our life on earth. Oh, men 
and women, yet walking on earth, consider this ! that 
all sin, great or small, has its own irretrievable con- 
sequence, which — ay, think of it — extends far beyond 
the limits of life, even into hell. And if mere con- 
sequence may be so terrible, what must be the 
punishment to come ? 

This then is the law of hell : we are not tor-^ 
mented — we torment ourselves! Yet remember? 
that in dying everything depends on whether we 
lived in the faith of the Son of God, who gave His 
life that men might be saved. Our sins have that 
dread importance in as far as they testify that we 
did not believe. Do you marvel that I speak of 
God ? Ah me. He is still our God ! And we know 
that there is a Son of God who came into the world 
to save sinners, who loved them unto death, even 
the death of the Cross. But we know nothing of the 
way of salvation : everything is forgotten — the very 
name of the Saviour. We consume ourselves in 
terrible efforts to remember, were it but the faintest 
remnant of saving knowledge, but alas it is vain — 
not even His name ! Could we remember that 
name, call it back to our hearts, I doubt not — I 
doubt not — even we might be saved. But it is gone 
— it is too late I too late I 

It is incredible how much I have forgotten ; 
indeed, I might say I have forgotten everything 
except myself. Yes, that is it. I have not forgotten 
self ; on the contrary, whatever of the past concerns 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


33 


my person and my life has followed me hither 
with a minuteness of detail as strange as it is painful. 
But the clothes of self, as it were, — the things I 
once possessed by knowledge, by intellectual acquire- 
ment, — they have vanished together with the gifts 
of mammon and the vanities of the flesh. You will 
not be surprised then that the feeling of nakedness 
is so terribly present with me. 

I have brought nothing hither but myself. And 
what comprises this self but a burning remorse 
which can never be stilled ; a greed of desire which 
can never be satisfied ; an unquenchable longing for 
things left behind ; innumerable recollections of sins 
great and small, causing insufferable anguish, all 
being equally bitter, equally fraught with vainest 
regret ! This is the picture of myself, O God, — o( 
myself in hell 


LETTER IV. 


The circumstances in which I grew up in the world 
could not be called happy. My parents were so 
unlike in character and so little suited to each other 
that people were fully justified in wondering how 
they could have married at all. My father was a 
plain homely man, somewhat retiring and unassum- 
ing ; he was the head of a well-to-do house of 
business of considerable mercantile importance. But 
he was not at first sight credited with personal weight 
or influence ; people would easily slight him. And 
yet there was that in the quiet expression of his face, 
in the calm clearness of his eye, which convinced those 
who took the trouble of knowing him that he was 
not a man of the ordinary type. 

My mother, whom I always considered the chief 
person in the house, was a woman of rare perfections, 
very handsome, very gracious, and highly esteemed. 
Age even flattered her, dealing kindly by her beauty ; 
but that, perhaps, was due to the fact that her life 
never flowed in the channels of violent passion. 
Some believed her cold and wanting in feeling ; but 
it would be a great mistake to imagine her without 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


35 


the warmth of energy. She was a clever woman, 
and although she never asserted herself so as to give 
offence, she always managed to have her way. 
Who, indeed, could have dreamt to turn her will 
aside, since I, her idol and her darling, never once 
succeeded in going against it ? She was a remarkably 
clever woman. 

The world admired her ; whether she was loved 
I cannot say. Maybe she loved no cne excepting 
myself. Did I love her ? Well, if I must answer 
the question honestly, I am bound tc say I also 
rather admired than loved her. And, indeed, she 
was worthy of all admiration. Never anywhere 
did I meet a woman who was so thoroughly what 
the world calls a lady — mind you, I mean a lady in 
the world’s own acceptation. She was just perfect — 
perfect in beauty, in manner, in bearing, in dress, in 
all the ways of life prescribed by society ; perfect too 
in the fulfilment of what she considered her duty, 
irreproachable in conduct, a very pattern of piety, 
appearing clothed in spotlessness as with a garment ; 
never saying or doing or permitting anything that 
might breathe suspicion on her perfection. In short, 
she was a lady to the least movement of her finger, 
to the minutest folds of her dress. And she preserved 
her reputation, even adding to it daily. 

Looking back now, I understand her — as indeed 
I understand the whole of the sad past — with a new 
insight. I see plainly now that to her the world 
was everything : it was her guide, its approval being 
the aim of her every ambition. I do not mean to 
say by this that she cared not for things good and 
beautiful in any other light, and she really cultivated 


36 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


religion. No one could appear more assiduously 
obedient to the behests of piety than my mother 
with her veneration for the clergy, her regular attend- 
ance at church ; and no one ever quitted her presence 
without feeling edified. Not undeservedly might duty 
and propriety be termed the guardian saints that 
watched her every step. 

The stately mansion we inhabited was divided in 
two, figuratively speaking, my mother presiding in 
one way — my father, though quietly, in another ; I, 
their child, seemed to belong altogether to my 
mother’s dominion. I shrank from my father, feeling j 
afraid of his quiet eye. Apparently he was satisfied | 
with this state of affairs, but I feel sure now that ic 
his heart he loved me. | 

My mother’s rule was marked by gaiety ; she loved 
to live in style. My father, excused by business, but 
rarely took part in her doings ; and if he made his 
appearance at times, I, foolish child, felt almost 
ashamed of his presence, — he looked so little like 
the master of the house in the simplicity of his habits 
and unpretending ways. 

There was another inmate of our house, my father’s 
sister, strangely contrasting with my mother. The , 
world had begun to call her an old maid ; and she 
certainly was peculiar, a mixture of unfashionableness 
and singularity. People called her eccentric, whim- 
sical ; and indeed one never knew what she might 
not be doing next. She was no Mady,’ like my l 
mother, and nowise perfect, though she could look ; 
remarkably ladylike whenever she thought it worth 
her while. She was extremely natural, her heart 
always bubbling over with its inmost thoughts ; there i 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


37 


was something utterly naive in her straightforward 
openness and the unstudied ways of her conversation. 
My mother, I believe, thought her queer ; but in 
♦ruth she was the only person who ever knew how 
to call up a smile in my father’s face. And this she 
looked upon as her own special vocation, ever mind- 
ful of it No ; Aunt Betty could nowise be held up 
as a pattern ; and as for perfections, she had but one 
— a heart brimful of kindness, ever ready to sacrifice 
itself, making it her one delight to see others happy. 
In fact she never thought of herself And that 
heart of hers was filled with a faith as deep and 
fervent and single-minded as any child’s. No doubt 
her Christian life knew its times of dearth as of 
plenty — it could not be otherwise with a nature like 
hers — but her heart, nevertheless, was firmly grounded. 
She had God in her heart. And though she might 
get entangled with her duties, and even blunder about 
God’s commandments, the one commandment, fulfill- 
ing the law, ever shone as a beacon to her soul that, 
loving God, we should love one another. 

She had hardly ever been separated from my 
father, and now she seemed indispensable in his 
house — that great two-parted house. If I were to 
call her our Cinderella, it would most certainly be 
an ill-chosen comparison, and yet a true one. She 
was queen of the household ; but in that position she 
managed to be the servant of all. Every trouble, 
every care, she took upon her shoulders, wearing 
herself out for each and all of us. She liked it. 
Any attempt to oppose her in this respect roused 
her self-assertion, meek and mild though she was in 
aught beside My mother, being the lady, never 


38 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


touched domestic concerns with a finger ; everything 
was given up to Aunt Betty, even the care fo*- 
myself and my father. But household worries were 
the least of her vicarious burden ; she felt called to 
take upon herself whatever was disagreeable to any 
one else, making herself a shield and warder-off in 
every possible direction, and being the willing scape- 
goat even, if thereby she could comfort blundering 
servant or careless child. She appeared to consider 
this her life’s calling, — she who, despite her simplicity, 
was by far the wisest of us, — and indefatigable were 
her attempts to cover the want of harmony between 
my parents. She might in truth be called the bond 
of union between them. It was evidently my father 
for whom she thus sacrificed herself, loving him with 
a sisterly devotion as beautiful as rare. How well 
she understood how to brighten his home, to turn 
aside the edge of disappointment, and flood the place 
with her own abundant warmth. Was he sad, — 
how she would cheer him, and with a show of gaiety, 
hiding perhaps her own aching heart, strive to heal 
the breach that separated him from his wife, and, 
alas! from his child as well. 

And how lovingly she did her very best for me, — 
the sweetest, kindest of aunts I My mother indulged 
me fondly ; I ought not to say that she spoiled me, — 
her cleverness stood in the way of that ; but I owe 
it to my aunt that, in spite of all indulgence, I was a 
good and even pious child. It was she who taught 
me to read my Bible, sowing the good seed in my 
heart, and nothing in after life ever did more for 
me than her loving and God-fearing example. The 
recollection of that early time is unspeakably sweet 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


59 


to me even now in the bitterness of hell. With 
what power of love she drew me is plainly evident 
from the fact that whenever I could I stole away 
from the queenly presence of my mother — though 
there was never a plaything I wished for but she 
gave it me — to seek Aunt Betty, trotting behind her 
to kitchen and storeroom, or spending hours in the 
one little chamber she called her own. That was 
the happiest time of my life. 

Thanks to Aunt Betty, then, I was brought up in 
the fear of God ; but though the seed was sown, and 
the flower even blossomed, it never yielded fruit 
As I grew up, the power of the sensual was upon 
me, and I early conformed to the ways of the world. 
Aunt Betty died ; she had positively worn herself to 
death. At such cost the service of love at times is 
given. Her loss moved me deeply, but the impres- 
sion did not last I had begun to attend at my 
father’s counting-house. My mother had destined 
me for the army, or, if possible, to some diplomatic 
career. I was gifted with my mother’s beauty, was 
heir to my father’s fortune, and not wanting in 
ability. She took pride in me, and naturally wished 
I should be a credit to her in the eyes of the world. 
But although apart from Aunt Betty I had always 
been left to my mother’s guidance, my father 
strenuously opposed her wishes in this respect ; I 
should follow in his footsteps and carry on the time- 
honoured firm. Life, he said, would )deld its own 
battles apart from the army. He was right, but a 
sorry soldier I proved. 

I was gifted with the pleasant but dangerous 
talent of making friends wherever I went — a per- 


40 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


nicious talent even, with a disposition like mine 
Not only did the world open her arms to receive me, 
but to clasp me, as the fair nymphs of the well 
clasped Hylas, the beautiful youth, dragging him 
helplessly to the deep. Even before my lips wore 
the first downy sign of manhood, I was already 
corrupted Of misleading companions there was 
no lack, those of my own sex not being the worst. 
Such things, however, avenge themselves : being 
misled at first, I began to mislead. 

But being brought under my father’s immediate 
influence, he did his utmost to lift me from the 
slough, sparing neither admonition, nor rebuke, nor 
even restraint. It availed not ; I evaded his guid- 
ance, and even deceived him. More successful were 
my mother’s attempts ; for while, on the one hand, 
she managed to let me see that she could condone, 
if not actually excuse, she yet so powerfully pleaded 
the claims of prudence and position that I promised 
to mend my ways. And I did mend them. I care- 
fully considered the extreme of dissipation, avoiding 
discovery and scandal. 

Self-restraint was not without eflbrt, for my nature 
thirsted after f)leasure. But though passion-ruled, I 
had a strong will to act as a curb where I chose, 
and the worldly wisdom of my mother taught mt 
(he advisability of exerting that will. 

1 was about one-and-twenty when my father died ; 
never since we lost Aunt Betty, can I remember 
having seen a smile on his face — there was no one to 
call it up v'hen she had gone. And now he left us 
My mother retired on her jointure — satisfied, as she 
said, to have done her duty in the world. And I, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 4t 

at an early age, was admitted to a partnership in the 
firm, of which my father’s brother now was head. 
Soon after I fell seriously ill. 

This brings me to one of the darkest episodes 
of my life. It is but an episode, a draught of pass- 
ing enjoyment, but fraught with the origin of my 
deepest woe. Could I be washed of all my sin, 
this one dark recollection would never leave me. 

The illness happily had been got over, leaving 
me prostrate. It was early in the spring. My 
medical attendant advised me to leave town as soon 
as possible for the country or the seaside. But I 
was a prey to ill-humour and fretfulness. I liked 
the advice, and did not like it. I did not care for 
our own place in the country ; it was not quiet 
enough, I said, and I hated the sea. As it chanced 
a sudden whim came to the rescue. We had been 
to the lakes the previous autumn ; memory carried 
me back to a keeper’s lodge, delightfully situated in 
a leafy solitude, a very bower of clematis and roses. 
Peace herself could not dream of a more congenial 
retreat. If I was to go for change of air that was 
the place I should fancy. 

Difficulties were got over, and I went. An 
honest old keeper lived there with his daughter 
Annie, she being on the verge of womanhood. 
Annie ! — how little did I think that this name 
one day would sound so terrible to my ears. 

I recovered quickly and strength returned. But 
lovely as the spot was, life without incident did not 
amuse me. From sheer ennui I began to make love 
to Annie. She was an inexperienced country-girl ; 
but the v^ry naYvet^ of her ignorance was >odiant- 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


la 

Ing. She was as free and natural as the birds of 
the dell, a very outcome of her surroundings, fresh 
as the dewy morn and fragrant as the woodland air. 
Wild and untaught, yet sweetly delicate, that child 
of nature soon cast a spell over my fancy. We 
were left alone fearlessly. Her father saw but a 
child in her — she was barely seventeen — and she 
was engaged to wait on me. 

But Annie, at first, was proof to flattery ; light- 
footed and light-hearted, she turned its edge uncon- 
sciously, and I made no way with her. Always 
merry and always happy, full of kindliness and 
grace, she flitted about me, helpful as an angel, but 
coy and unapproachable. Not that she saw danger — 
she did not even suspect it ; it was merely the 
instinctive dread holding all children of nature aloof 
from snares. The bird on the sunny bough will 
look at you, even sing to you, but you shall not 
touch it. Brimming with life’s enjoyment she was 
easily delighted, and sprightly as a squirrel in the 
wood. She knew affection, but what we call love 
had at that time not entered her consciousness. 
Never had I seen a happier mind, a fresher and 
more charming disposition ; the sky of her soul was 
as clear as the blue vault above, her singing as 
blithe as the lark’s on the wing, and she cared not 
whether the sun shone or not. 

But in my selfish soul i said, * Thou coy little 
bird, see if I don’t catch thee !’ Not rhat I loved 
her — the difference of rank was too great ; but I was 
for plucking the flower, though I should throw it 
away after a while. 

And I did succeed, working a pitiful change io 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


43 


the child ; she was like a faded blossom or a bird 
with broken wing. Her singing and laughter were 
silenced, the fearlessness of innocence was gone. 
Sadly and silently she moved about, scarcely lifting 
her tearful eye. But from that moment she clung 
to me with tender resignation, as touching as it was 
true, — to me who had ruined her in idle sport. She 
felt, and felt rightly, that henceforth her life was 
mine ; and in her own way loved me, wronged as 
she was. It was I who had murdered her soul. 

Even then repentance with poignant sting had 
seized upon my heart — there was some good left in me 
as yet ; I felt deeply touched, moreover, by the child’s 
entire love and humble surrender. Was she bewitch- 
ing before, she was not less so now ; not to be 
known again, but lovely still in sorrow. Free and 
fearless she had been in the pride of her beauty ; 
now with chaplet deflowered and robbed of her glory, 
ruefully kissing the hand which brought her so low. 

I began to love her, or to believe I loved her, and 
thought of a possible marriage. 

But it fell out differently. My mother had been 
informed, and set herself to bring me to reason. 
How cleverly she did it ! — not rousing opposition, but 
none the less effectively showing me the utter fool- 
ishness of my intention. There was not a shade of 
derision in her manner, yet I felt ridiculed. 5^he 
never called it a silly freak, but she brought me to 
view it as such. Had I really loved Annie, no 
doubt my mother could not so easily have in- 
fluenced me As it was, I suddenly seemed to 
come to my senses ; it was not love — only pity foi 
the girl 


44 


LETTERS FROM HELL, 


My mother spoke about it freely ; and presently 1 
she succeeded in directing my attention elsewhere \ 
She had adopted an orphan child, of American I 
parentage, distantly related to her own family. Lily ? 
might be about nine or ten years old now, and so 
far I had scarcely bestowed any notice upon her. 

My mother would hint now and then at the rare 
flower of beauty slumbering in the buds of promise. 
And presently, in so many words, she pointed out J 
to me that in some seven or eight years Lily j 
might not only have ripened to matchless charms, J 
but as an heiress of no ordinary kind could not 
fail to draw the eyes of men. If, then, I would 
give up Annie, and think of Lily instead, she would j 
try to keep her for me. When Lily should have / 
reached maturity, it would be just about the right 1 
time for me to settle in life, and I might hunt the | 
world over, and not find her equal anywhere. That .) 
was true enough, and imagination had been set to 1 
work. Since that time I loved to think of the pro- t 
mising little Creole. 

Lily was undeniably a lovely creature, as harm- 
less as a dove, but with me anticipating fancy 
revelled in possession. It v/as easy for my mother 
therefore to win me to her plan. There was some- 
thing indescribably charming in this new relationship. 

To look upon Lily as ny own property, though she 
knew it not ; to watch her unfolding charm upon 
charm in sweetest innocence; to call her mine — mine 
in the very care that guarded her ; to gather up S 
treasure, as it were, for my own delightful harvest, | 
— call it unnatural if you like, but to a nature like | 
mine it was irresistibly tempting. | 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


45 


I allowed my mother full liberty to bring the 
affair with Annie to a satisfactory end, as she termed 
it, having given her my word not to see the girl 
again. A real sacrifice, ^as it not? Hell shows it 
now in its own true light. 


LETTER V. 


1 BEGIN to feel at home here. At home? How 
full of sweetest echoes is this word. Its very sound 
would warm ore’s heart on earth ; it is bitter here — 
doubly bitter for memories gone. It does not lessen 
hell to get used to it ; we are even forced to make 
ourselves at home here, just as we are obliged to be 
what once we were. 

That irresistible impulse to be continuously doing 
the works of our earthly life, to pursue with a burning 
greed a vain and shadowy existence, may well be 
termed hell’s daily bread. The evil desire alone is 
real ; the sense that might lend it expression is dead. 
You have heard of Tantalus and Sisyphus — it may 
help you to conceive our state. All is illusion here, 
the very fire I told you of, raging in imagination 
merely — within us that is — and yet what an awful 
reality ! 

You understand, then, that I have resumed old 
habits, not willingly, but under compulsion, following 
the old bent with a helpless disgust However, I 
cannot but add that I have been tolerably fortunate, 
falling on my feet in society, as it were, and a very 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 




nice set 1 have' joined. I have been lucky in renew- 
ing many an old acquaintance, and have made friends 
with people whom one would have been glad to know 
on earth. You would be indeed surprised if I were 
indiscreet enough to mention names ! But I shall 
content myself with generalising. It is strange how 
many of the so-called respectable people one meets 
here ; in fact, they form the nucleus of society in hell 
as they do on earth. I might even say good people, 
meaning those worthy folk whose one desire it is to 
go through life comfortably, quite willing no one 
else should hunger, provided they themselves have 
all they need ; satisfied with their lot in the world, 
not perhaps a grand one, and caring for nothing 
beyond it — never dreaming that the less fortunate 
might be their brothers and sisters after all. Just 
look about you wherever you please — the world is 
full of such. They are good to themselves and good 
to their children, thanking God for the means of 
being so. They spend their years as if this life’s 
business weie all that needs to be thought of, living 
for their families, their home concerns, whether in 
drudgery or in ease, both men and women. You 
little think that daily life, with its legitimate cares, — 
ay, even what you call your duty by house and 
home, — may be the snare to bring your soul to hell ! 
There are men who rush through life in the whirl of 
amusement ; others sleep through it ; others again 
wear themselves out for its paltry amenities, calling 
that to live forsooth 1 And before they are aware of 
it, their race is run they close their eyes to open 
them again, surprised perhaps, in the pangs of hell. 
Oh could I live over again but a single year of 


48 


LETTERS FROM HLLL. 


my earthly span — I do not mean for my own sake 
merely ! — I might perhaps be able to warn some few 
of those excellent men whose ideas of life are wrapped 
up in the counting-house on the one hand, and in 
the prosperity of their family on the other — of those 
devoted wives and mothers who spend themselves 
for the comforts of home. I say some few of them, 
well knowing that not many would believe me. 

Nay, even as regards so-called philanthropists 
I have made the unexpected discovery that some of 
them — I say some — who have really one way or 
another benefited thousands, have fived to their own 
ruin. Has the world been loud in their praises? — 
iearn wisdom, my friend, and overrate not the world’s 
approval. 

It is, indeed, a strange fancy, prevalent among 
men, that only the wicked go to hell. You poor 
deluded ones, listen to my words : it is incredible, I 
assure you, how little is needed to take a man to 
hell — that is to say, if he dies without haying foynd 
his Saviour. For without Him the soul is unable to 
bear the smallest weight of wrong; while with Him — 
yes, with Him — she will wing herself to heaven in th e ^ 
face of mountains of sin. Do you know that Saviour? 

I ask you as one who can never know Him now ! 

There are many here, I assure you, who have 
never committed any particular crime. The world, 
with its notions of right and wrong, would cry out 
for justice if it were but known ! And why are they 
here ? They never felt the sting of conscience, lead- 
ing respectable lives, laying the unction of goodness 
to their souls, — but they died and went to hell. No 
demon of evil ruled their b’ves, and yet they are hero 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


49 


— oh heaven, where is thy justice ? — in a like damna- 
tion with ourselves I The torment of hell for such 
people consists in having nothing to do here, no 
counting-house to attend, no families to provide for. 
Not ruled by passion, they are slaves to life’s habit, 
and the latter may be as terrible a taskmaster as 
the former. 

Thus much is certain, if having nothing to live 
for could kill people, and if one could die in hell, 
many here would die of sheer hankering after their 
earthly drudgery. 

My own existence, once I was properly intrc 
duced, was speedily filled with amusement. Are 
you surprised that I should say ‘ introduced ’? But 
we are no Goths here, and society with us also 
attends to its rules. If it needs little to bring one 
to hell, it is not so easy to make one’s way into the 
fashionable circles of this place of woe. It is with 
us just as with you, with this difference only : the 
world asks who a man is, the question here being 
who he was. 

Now I, in the world, was allowed to be handsome 
and refined, a man who could pride himself on his 
gentlemanly qualities, not to mention a considerable 
fortune. Here I no longer am this man, but I affect 
his semblance. Yet I must warn you against imagin- 
ing that there is any pretence ; no, it is nature, 
downiight nature. 

At first I was positively overwhelmed with calls 
and invitations. Here also novelty is much sought 
after. If I had brought nothing with me but the 
news of some foolish fashion lately adopted in the 
world, I should have been considered an acquisitioa 
4 


50 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


H 


But, without flattering my self, I may say I brought 
more — a fashionable finish of the most faultless 
description having ever been the very essence of my 
aims. Shall I tell you of a merry club-dinner to which 
I was asked lately? The party assembled was of 
doubtful reputation — high living, drink, and gluttony 
seemed their watchword ; nor was it compliment- 
ary to my antecedents to be invited, for with me 
the beautiful maxim, ‘ moderation in all things,’ had 
ever covered a multitude of sins, and I had always 
been careful to avoid vulgarity. However, there I 
was ; the fare was exquisite, the wine splendid. A 
jovial company they appeared, to judge from the 
loose jokes and ribald anecdotes passing between the 
pleasures of the table. And what shall I say of the 
temptations born of surfeit, coursing through the 
heated veins ? Ah, they were not wanting, but 
satisfaction was an illusion. I refrain — there was 
nothing real in all that banquet save its incitement 
to sin ; we preyed on our miserable selves, eating 
and drinking leaving a nauseating feeling of empti- 
ness, the very jokes being unbearably stale. Men of 
all kinds are found here, but vainly you look for one 
capable of producing anything to refresh the mind 
by genuine mirth or novelty. However, eat and 
drink we must, and laugh and joke we must ; we 
were obliged, I mean, whether we liked it or not. 
Now you understand perhaps, though faintly, what 
it means to joiii in festivity in hell. 

At that club-dinner, where nothing was wanting 
that gluttony could dream of, the thought of some 
poor man on earth eating his crust in the sweat of 
his brow again and again presented itself to my 


LETTERS FRCM HELL. 


5 * 


mind. The dry bread that satisfies his hunger, the 
beer or tea that quenches his thirst, what a royal 
feast is his as compared with ourselves. For he does 
eat, and is satisfied, but we — oh vainest deception ! 

Was it not that excellent hero, Achilles, who in 
Hades exclaimed mournfully, he would rather be the 
most miserable man on earth than king of the realm 
below ? This is but wisdom of the Greeks, but how 
true ! — how true ! I too would far rather spend my 
days upon earth amid the most overwhelming diffi- 
culties, battling with care, want, or suffering, than 
occupy any favoured position here, be it of king or 
epicure. Of all the fools of the world’s training 
he, surely, is greatest who takes away his own life, 
thinking that he could never be worse off than he is. 
In sooth, whatever a man’s earthly lot may be, be 
sure it may be a paradise to what he goes to meet. 
He may find himself yearning for the misery he 
quitted ; indeed, if you could give him back that 
misery tenfold, he would seize it eagerly and bless 
you for the gift 

Still the number of actual suicides, comparatively 
speaking, is small ; a far larger class of men content 
themselves with shortening their days by continuous 
grumblings and a dismal unsatisfied frame of mind. 
H shortening their days were but all, and if thereby 
they did at least better themselves for the time being! 
But the fact is, they all but kill life with discontent 
They are dissatisfied with themselves, with their 
fellows, with all the world, with the very air which 
they breathe and the day which is given them. 
Poor fools, the day is short and night is at hand I 
And why are they dissatisfied ? Because health is 


52 


LETTERS FROM KELL. 


not all it should be, or the world at times crosses 
them ; because their position in life but imperfectly 
suits their nature and liking, and they would desire 
a better lot ; because perhaps their battle is harder 
than other people’s, or, at worst, their whole life a 
failure falling short of dearest hope ? 

I do not mean to underrate these things — on the 
.ontrary, I do own that life to most men is fraught 
A^irh sorrow ; but I say this : Could you but view 
mativrs from the vantage -ground of hell, you who 
lessen life by discontent, you would gain that much 
of wisoiom, that our days on earth, whatever of 
trouble, of care and vexation, be bound up with them, 
are yet capable of yielding very real happiness. So 
much depends on how we take things. If, instead 
of fixing upon trouble as something foreign to your- 
selves or hostile to your being, looking upon your- 
selves as miserab\e in consequence, you could but 
open your soul to that trouble and, rising from 
inertness, accept it a very part of your existence, 
how different things would appear ! Many a trouble, 
moreover, is but imaginary, and if dealt with sensibly 
would dwindle away ; while many a real trouble, on 
the other hand, by your striving to take it aright, 
might become an impulse of new endeavour, chang- 
ing the very face of your life and 'eading you to a 
better happiness than before you yimed at. Ah, 
indeed, if you could but view iiiatters from hell you 
would come to see that man is able to bear a load 
of trouble, and that, confronting want and misery, he 
may yet attain a state of happiness worth the hav- 
ing! You ’i/ould find that every day of that life 
which now you make a burden to yourselves and to 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


53 


otheis is precious beyond words, a gracious gift of 
God for which you cannot be grateful enough. You 
would understand that I, hungering and longing, 
would wish to be in your place — ay, and count myself 
blessed to bear the burden which you consider so 
grievous. But what boots it that I see it all so 
plainly now ; it is too late for me, — too late. 

That fashionable people in hell have their so- 
called grand evening parties will hardly surprise you ; 
we have dances, ‘at homes,’ and all those things set 
store by in the world. But if this sort of stylish 
living even on earth is unutterably hollow, what muse 
it be here where the very air we breathe is vanity 
and nothingness ? Looking back I can scarcely 
credit now how I could wrong my better self for 
the sake of that vile habit of attending parties. What 
is a party in the very society which calls itself polite? 
Is it not as if some vicious goblin had a hand in 
it, bringing together twenty, fifty, even a hundred 
people, each of whom has his own cosy fireside — 
men and women who for the most part have little or 
nothing in common, but needs must meet beneath 
staring chandeliers, the spirit of falsehood among 
them ? Vanity rules, and when the goblin has 
thoroughly fooled them and lights turn pale, they 
each go home fagged and tattered. Host and hostess 
say, ‘ What a mercy it’s over!’ Each visitor says, 
‘ I am thankful to go to bed ’ — are you, poor fools 
of fashion ? 

But if it seems a marvel now how I also, in days 
gone by, could sacrifice myself to the so-called claims 
of society, I need not marvel that I do so here. It 
was by choice then,--'t is under compulsion now ; it 


54 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


is as if ten thousand goblins fooled us — we know it 
but cannot withstand. 

The object of parties with us is just the same aa 
with you : to be seen, to be admired, to make one- 
self agreeable — not so much in order to please your 
neighbour as to be thought pleasant yourself — and 
to hide it amiably if you think people a bore. There 
is one marked difference, however, placing us often 
in a position both painful and ridiculous. What 
should you say if at any of your great social gather- 
ings you could look through people’s clothes — those 
fine clothes put on so carefully — through them, I say, 
to the very piece of humanity they hide, and not 
only through them, but, deeper still, to the core of 
the heart beneath ? It is so here ! Supposing, then, 
you walk up to some old crone, saying, with your 
most engaging smile — * Delighted to see you !’ think- 
ing to yourself at the same time — T wish she were at 
Jericho !’ — I leave you to imagine the figure you cut. 
I give this as an example only — as a clue, rather , 
think it out further and see where it leaves youl 
But even to this one gets used in hell, fortifying one- 
self with a kind of frivolous impudence, without 
which intercourse would be simply unbearable. The 
incident I quoted of course leaves the advantage with 
the old crone ; but the moment she opens her lips 
her interlocutor has the best of it, for he can see 
through her clothes as she saw through his. They 
are quits then. 

However, as I said, it is not merely ludicrous but 
painful — offering, moreover, an unsurmountable ob 
Stacie to all courtship. It is utterly impossible here 
to fool a Moman, be she ever so frail. All the fine 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


55 


words of hell cannot delude her, for she sees through 
them. From this point of view we form a most 
virtuous company. Indeed, flattery and compliments 
with us are exceedingly difficult to pass, the heart be- 
traying the man in quite another sense than with you. 

You can hardly picture to yourself how much 
' of the truly surprising, if not interesting, may be 
, experienced here in a single day. The world, as 
seen from hell, is the land of dreams and imaginings, 
appearing beautiful and pleasant none the less. And, 
absurdly paradoxical as it may sound, here only, 
! where all reality has vanished, reality in uncompro- 
i mising nakedness is upon us. Are they friends or 
foes that meet, they soon speak the truth to one 
another. Such mutual confessions, on the whole, are 
little edifying, and, since there are no secrets here, 
1 at once flit from circle to circle for general merri- 
ment. Do you care to have examples ? Here are 

I some recent tit-bits. 

A. had been killed in a duel which he fought to 
avenge an insult offered to his handsome young wife. 
Quite recently he somewhat unexpectedly met his 
late opponent, who, having gone the way of all 
flesh, had come to hell. Wrathfully he taxed him 
with former wrong, but the latter made answer quite 
coolly : • 

‘ Silly man, do you mean to fight me again for 
nothing whatever? Let bygones be bygones; we 
ij|l had better be friends.’ 

(3 ‘For nothing whatever!’ reiterated A., hotly. 
i|| ‘ Do you call it nothing that you insulted my wife, 
ji and killed me, moreover, when I tried to vindicate 


56 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


*I iuppose I must tell you the plain fact/ replied 
his opponent. * I see you still labour under a 
delusion. The matter was simply this : I had been 
the lover of your wife, but broke with her. That 
was the insult. That is why she got you to challenge 
me. However, these are bygones ; we’ll be friends 
now.’ 

Whether they were friends after that I cannot 
tell. I rather think that A. felt ready to hide him- 
self. 

Two friends — in fact they were cousins — sat 
together in pleasant intercourse. Said the one : 

‘ To tell the truth, I was born to be a poet. I 
did write novels, and my first publications made 
quite a sensation.’ 

‘ Don’t I know that,’ says the cousin, * since it 
was I who wrote half the reviews about them ? It 
was I, sweet coz, who brought you into fashion. 
That is easily managed, if one has a few connections 
and sufficient wit to let the review be racy ; people 
are easily caught’ 

* What — you? Surely you are but joking ! Why. 
I owe you everlasting thanks.’ 

‘ Thanks — no,’ replied the cousin. * Did we not 
love one another as very brothers ?’ 

The would-be poet grew thoughtful, continuing 
after a while : 

‘But it was short-lived fame. I had jumped into 
fashion with one leap, as it were, and a great futuie 
seemed to await me, when, as by magic, there was a 
change which I never understood. Reviews from 
panegyrics turned to spite, cutting me up so merci- 
lessly that no publisher presently had courage tc 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


57 


launch my works, and I was constrained to turn my 
back upon the literary career.* 

‘Well, I can solve that mystery also. It was I 
whc cut you up so mercilessly as you say, not leaving 
you the faintest pretence to talent I had set myself 
to persecute you into silence ; as soon as you opened 
your mouth, down came the lash. What could you 
do but turn your back upon literature?* 

‘ You — you did that ?* 

‘To be sure, but don’t excite yourself: it was to 
your own advantage. Your mother, to whom I 
never could say nay, had implored me to leave no 
stone unturned in trying to save you from what she 
considered your utter ruin. You had no talent for 
poetry, she said, but a very marked calling for the 
blacking manufactory, on which your family had 
thriven conspicuously. Now / knew — of course I did 
— that your literary fame was all humbug ; and hum- 
bug could not really hold you in the saddle, I saw 
that. A reviewer could fill your balloon, but he 
could not keep it sailing, and with every line you 
wrote the gas escaped wofully ; you were as near 
a collapse as possible. So I generously resolved 
to anticipate it, and by main force bring you from 
poetry to blacking. I discharged broadsides of wit 
and volleys of sarcasm whenever you dared to show 
yourself in print, success crownii.g my efforts; for 
you died rich with the spoils of blacking — a man of 
worth, too, in the eyes of respectable citizens.* 

‘And went to hell!* cried the blacking and 
poesymonger. ‘ Should I find myself here if my 
Pegasus had not been hamstrung so vilely ?’ 

‘ That is more that I know,* returned the review- 


58 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ing cousin mildly. ‘ But I scarcely think that litera- 
ture by itself would have carried you to Paradise, any 
more than I believe that blacking alone had power 
to drag you to hell. But these are bygones. I 
loved you dearly, and was your best friend, after all. 

The poetical blacking-dealer turned away dis- 
gusted. The information was more than he could 
stand. 

A couple of monks were holding low but earnest 
converse. 

‘But tell me, brother,* said the one, ‘how you 
came to take the cowl ?* 

‘ Through my own stupidity ; it was nothing else. 
I fell in love with Lisella Neri ; you knew her, I 
think. She was considered a beauty, and she was 
an heiress. However, I was refused, and, sick of 
life, I entered the monastery, — a piece of folly I rued 
every day till I died. A simple story, is it not ? 
But what brought you to the cloister ?’ 

‘ The very opposite, strange to say. I also loved 
Lisella, and presently was her accepted suitor, but it 
ended in my being the most miserable husband under 
the sun. Lisella was both capricious and bad ; and 
she did not care for me. I never knew a moment’s 
peace. There seemed but one way out of misery : 
leaving her mistress of her fortune, I fled to the 
monastery, and truly I never repented of it. If evet 
a moment’s discontent assailed me I had but to think 
of Lisella and happiness was restored.’ 

The first monk sat buried in silence. Presently 
he said : ‘ Our experience shows that no one can 
escape his destiny. From what you tell me I gather 
that Lisella, one way or another, mmt have brought 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


59 


me to the cowl. Still you,' brother, were the most 
fortunate after all ; not because for a time you 
owned that handsome troubler of peace, but because, 
knowing her as I did not, your disappointment 
ended in content’ 

But enough of this. What is the use of telling 
these things ? 

Martin, poor Martin, what may have become ol 
you ? He was wronged after all. Badly brought 
up, badly used, he was my work. 

She was very beautiful that young girl, about his 
own age. She was cleaning the house-steps one day 
when I first saw her. But lowly as her occupation 
was, she charmed the eye. The demon was moved. 
It was easy for me to offer to educate her. She 
appeared not born to her humble sphere. I placed 
her with a family I knew. Simple as she was, she 
appeared to understand I had some object. But the 
flower should unfold before I plucked it. T had 
learned to wait. 

By what chance he and she met I know not, but 
their first meeting seems to have been sufficient. As 
in a flash of lightning love struck their hearts simul- 
taneously, and quickly they knew that they were 
each other’s. 

Martin came to me with an open confession. But 
not only did I refuie consent, — I cruelly taunted him, 
defrauded as I felt. He quitted me in anger to seek 
his own way. As self-willed as myself, he hesitated 
not a moment as to his line of action, carrying off 
the girl before my very eyes so to speak. 

She was nowhere to be found. But he did not 


6o 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


hide, facing me boldly. It was then that I thrust 
him from my house ; from my heart also I believed 
— but in this I was mistaken. 

What could he have been wanting to tell me that 
would heal every breach between us, as he said in 
that letter ? Did it concern him or her ? A Higher 
Power has spoken, he said. I am left to maddening 
doubt. 

Doubt ? — nay, it is a burning question, consuming 
my soul with the fire of hell — sufficient almost to 
draw me back to earth as a wandering ghost. But 
should 1 find an answer to the question — and where? 



LETTER VI. 

Let me speak to you of Lily. But I fear memory 
will scarcely separate the child Lily from the woman 
into which she blossomed. Remember that I see 
her with the knowledge of a later period. I neither 
saw nor knew her aright, there being nothing so 
blind as the carnal gaze. 

She was a Creole. Delicate and lovely were her 
features, though not perhaps moulded after any 
received type of beauty ; her hair black and glossy ; 
her eyes like stars, of so deep a blue that the 
cursory beholder believed them black, and veiled 
I with lashes behind which her soul at times would 
appear to withdraw from your gaze as a pure 
i nymph descending into her own limpid depth. Her 
; figure was slight and airy, perfectly harmonious, not 
• wanting in fulness, but tenderly shaped ; not tall, 
I with hands and feet of the smallest, and rarely 
|: beautiful. Such was Lily. But those eyes of hers 
i were her greatest charm. Who does not know the 
[ soft enchantment of Creole eyes? Lily’s even now 
p have a power that penetrates my soul. Never in 
!' all eternity shall I forget that tender brightness 

I 


62 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


sparkling with tearful laughter, that gaze half sad 
and yet so full of promise, that at any time it bound 
my heart. 

The southern temperament is generally accredited 
with caprice and passionate self-will. But nothing 
was more unlike Lily than this. No doubt there 
was warmth in her nature, but its glow was gentle 
and deep, never kindling to passion, but always 
yielding its own beneficent radiance. Capriciousness 
was utterly foreign to her, but she knew her own 
mind concerning anything she considered to be 
right — anything her conscience had recognised as 
due to truth or charity. In such things her will 
was unbendable, though in aught else she was sub- 
missiveness itself Self-love she knew not, her 
soul’s deepest need being surrender. Poor child, 
you could not have been placed more terribly, all 
but given over to one who was an egotist to the core 
of his being. 

She was all heart. Later on some physician 
discovered what he called an organic defect — Lily’s 
heart was too large, he said. Nothing more likely 
than this ! I never knew a disposition so prone to 
feeling, so easily touched as hers. She was brim- 
ming with affection, love being the only reward she 
claimed. As a child, a loving word — a look even — 
could so move her that she would fling herself on 
your neck whispering her gratitude as she nestled in 
your embrac'i. Her sympathy at all times was 
easily roused. The trials and strivings of others — 
their joys and sorrows, their happiness or mis- 
fortune — were all that interested her most She 
seemed to mo^ e in love and pity. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


63 


At times I could not but tell myself how ill- 
fitted she was for a self-seeking world. Her tender 
nature was often hurt in intercourse with others, and, 
feeling repulsed, she would shrink back within her- 
self. That is why after all she was a lonely child, 
satisfied to commune with herself and with me — • 
wretch as I was. 

Added to this, hers was a wonderful simplicity 
of nature — simplicity of spirit I ought to say. 1 
doubt not that, had she lived to extreme old age, 
she would never have departed from the heart of a 
child. Nothing was more easy than to talk her 
over to anything, provided only it did not clash with 
her sense of right. She never dreamt that anybody 
could be deceiving her. Once or twice I frivolously 
put her simple-mindedness to the test, but felt so 
humbled by her utter trust that I never did it again. 
Incarnate shamelessness would have bowed to her 
holy innocence. She was one of those beautiful 
beings one meets with but rarely in life, who, walking 
on earth, keep their skirts pure, no matter what 
defilement be about them. I verily believe you 
might have dragged her through slums of sin and 
vice, and she would have come forth with innocence 
unharmed. Her soul somehow was above offence, 
she never thought that anybody could be wanting to 
do wrong. Her eyes never opened to the appalling 
fact that it is a wicked world in which men live. 
She knew what sin was, her pious mind having its 
own childlike ideas concerning it ; but she never 
knew vice as, with fleeting footstep, she followed her 
transient course of life. 

I should wrong myself if I said that I never saw 


u 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


this till now. I felt it even then, corrupt as I was. 
How little there was in common between us — she 
all spirit, I all flesh. Again I say, poor little Lily ! 

She did not acquire much knowledge in life, hei 
learning being restricted to the fewest of objects. 
That history was her favourite pursuit would seem 
natural, since histoiy» treats of men, of their deeds 
and conflicts, their happiness and grief, moving her 
heart to sympathy ; and she cared for a book only 
inasmuch as it spoke of her fellows, otherwise she 
saw but dead letters which wearied her. In me- 
chanical attainments, therefore, she was ever back* 
ward ; it was next to impossible to teach her the use 
of a foreign tongue. Living a life of feeling, she 
could not but become contemplative and somewhat 
dreamy, reason inclining to sit apart in her. We 
seriously endeavoured to shake her up, as the phrase 
goes, but it is a thankless task to attempt anything 
against nature. Wanting in communicativeness she 
was by no means, — to me at least she was ready to 
confide her every thought. 

The stories of the Bible had ever been those she 
loved above all others. They had been the first 
food of her waking soul, and never anything im- 
pressed her more deeply than the death on the Cross 
of the Son of God, who loved sinful men and gave 
His life for them. That love and thai suffering 
formed her earliest impressions, and the most lasting 
Again and again she would read the holy record, 
and surely an angel has counted the tears she shed 
while so engaged. Unlike in aught else as she was 
to Mary Magdalene, she was Mke her in burning 
love for her crucified Lord. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


65 

Later on the history of the Crusades moved her. 
The Crucified One was her first love, and stories of 
the crusaders first stirred her enthusiasm, the idea 
seizing on her so powerfully that the course of a few 
weeks seemed to add years to her growth. The 
enthusiasm cooled, but the thought remained, and 
thenceforth the Holy Land, where the Son of God 
had lived and died, was the object of her dearest 
longing. She would at first lend expression to her 
feelings, but she suffered for it. Her little girl-friends 
nicknamed her the Lady Crusader. And even if 
; they held their peace they could not refrain from 
teasing her by signs, holding up their fingers cross- 
wise on meeting her ; she, poor little thing, of course 
understood their amiable meaning. The Saviour’s 
Cross thus early had become her cross. The mockery 
hurt her deeply, and she was not again heard to 
speak of the Holy Land. But where the lips must 
I be silent, the heart perhaps clings to its longing all 
! the more ardently. 

I Would it not seem that she was little fitted for 
this world ? — not for my world, at any rate. Had I 
, not been such a hopelessly miserable fellow, I must 
I have known it, her very look must have told me — 
i beautiful and pure as an angel ! Beauty and its 
I enjoyment had ever appeared to me as the very 
prizes of life ; but never have I known anything more 
simply beautiful than the entire devotion of this child - 
soul in purity and truth, and unspotted by self-love. 

Some years passed away when my mother again 
thought fit to interfere. ‘ That won’t do,’ she said 
‘you anticipate futurr* happiness, and thereby will 
lose it You must separate. You had better 

■ 5 


66 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


travel for a couple of years. I will watch over hWy 
meanwhile, and do what I can towards bringing her 
up for your delight. Yes, leave us, my son ; the 
time will come when you will see the wisdom of my 
counsel.* 

I could not but own that my mother was right, 
and declared myself ready to make the effort in the 
interest of future happiness, or, more correctly, of 
promised enjoyment. It had become desirable, just 
about that time, that one of the partners of the firm 
should go to South America ; it would be a length- 
ened absence. My old uncle could not undertake 
it ; my cousin, junior partner like myself, did not 
care for the journey ; I, therefore, yielding to my 
mother’s private representations, offered to go. Lily 
dissolved in tears on taking leave ; my mother’s 
severest influence scarcely could bring her to reason. 
I too was moved, but took comfort in selfish thought 
‘ Wait, little woman ; we shall meet again, and future 
delight will be greater that present loss!’ 

I stayed away longer even than was expected. 
I often had news from home — letters, too, from Lily 
— wonderful letters I An angel might have written 
them, those delicately tender productions ; and noth- 
ing could be more foreign to my own nature than 
the lovely thoughts expressed in those — shall I say 
— ethereal letters ? But they did not sink into my 
heart : they only touched my senses. Surely it was 
an evil delight which said : ‘This tender blossom, so 
pure anc innocent, is yours ; you will teach her one 
day that she too is flesh and blood, and a child of 
earth.’ 

I returned at last and saw her again. I was 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


67 


charmed, — nc,that is not the word, — I was enchanted! 
Graceful and slender — unutterably lovely, with maiden 
blushes, and veiling her eyes — ^just quitting childhood ; 
she was not quite fifteen. 

But as I pronounced her name she raised those 
wondrous eyes and looked at me. Joy trembled in 
tears, and echoed through my soul. It was but a 
look, but 1 was satisfied. I clasped her to my heart 
; Shall I call them happy, the days which now had 
dawned ? They were happy, but not without a 
I sting. Seeing Lily was as though reading her 

! letters. Again and again I felt she was the child 
of another sphere. How should she satisfy me ? 
Even while I clasped her in rapture I kmw her aims 
and mine were far, far apart. As childlike as ever, 
hers was the same yielding tenderness ; but her very 
affection filled me with regret The love in which 
she moved was unknown to me ; she and I were 
1 different as day and night, as heaven and hell. 

; Some time passed away. Again my mother 
; stepped between us, reminding me of the calls of 
good sense and propriety. The child must be left 
) free to develop ; our constant intercourse would 
I end in her treating me as a brother always, and that 
i was not what I wanted. It was desirable that I 
i should take bachelor’s rooms, and the less I showed 
myself at home the better. For the rest I could 

I make myself as agreeable to Lily as I pleased, and 
|| as might be compatible with the solemn promise not 

II to speak to her of love till she should have completed 
!i her seventeenth year. 

i My mother always had her way ; I promised and 
ij took rooms. I saw she was right. Lily had not 


6S 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


unfolded in my presence as she might have done. 
There was a change on my leaving, and a new relation- 
ship promised to grow out of the old on i. She ceased 
being the mere child, her natural surrender clothing 
itself with maidenly reserve. I was obliged to be 
careful, and that was well. It was a time of trial, 
and continued so in spite of its own share of antici- 
pating bliss. . . . 

I remembered Annie and made inquiries. Her 
father had died ; what had become of her no one 
could tell. My mother could have told I doubted 
not, but I dared not ask her. I tried to stifle recol- 
lection, and with Lily’s unconscious assistance I 
succeeded. . . . 

There was sorrow on the horizon. Lily drooped. 
She had always been delicate, and waking woman- 
hood found her more delicate still. Our utmost care 
gathered round her, and we resolved to winter in the 
south. Lily had grown thoughtful ; the child was 
trying to understand herself, dreamily musing within 
her soul. She seemed more lovely than ever, beset 
with the riddles of her deepest being. But delight 
in her yielded to anxiety. 

Thus we three — my mother, Lily, and myself — 
moved southward. It was a time of blessing ; this 
period of my life appearing steeped in light, and 
showing of darkness only what seemed needfy’ to 
enhance the light. Lily’s stcte of health grew less 
alarming ; a year passed rapidly, I will not say 
without spot or blemish as far as it concerned myself, 
yet without leaving any real scar on the tablets of 
memory. It was all but Paradise — but ik"" 
is hell I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


69 


How happy we were, we three together ! My 
mother amiability itself — I anxious to be amiable — 
and Lily lifting her fair white cup to receive heaven’s 
dew. She was happy, and she showed it. How 
gracefully she raised her drooping head ! how radiant 
were her looks, drinking in the riches of beauty about 
her ! Not only bodily, but mentally, she unfolded 
charm upon charm in the genial atmosphere, half a 
year working ^ marvel of change. Womanhood 
had risen in the blushes of dawn, sweet and fragrant 
as a rose just opening her chalice to the dewy kisses 
of morning. In her relation to me also childhood 
receded ; as tender and submissive as ever, there 
was an unconscious dignity about her. She was no 
longer the petted darling, living only in the affection 
that surrounded her ; but she had found riches of life, 
fathomless and beautiful, within her own being. And 
before long she, whose natural gifts of mind and 
heart far surpassed my own, had gained an ascendency 
over me as complete as indescribable. Gladly I 
yielded myself to this influence ; it was a new delight 
— nobler and purer than any I had tasted before. 
Lily raised me above myself — I hardly knew it at 
the time ; but new sensations, new interests, new 
hopes, filled my heart, teaching me gradually that 
there were better things in life than gratifying self 
and pleasing the senses. Day by day intercourse 
with her refined and ennobled my nature. I was in 
a fail way of becoming good, of becoming human^ 
let me say ! 

Her own eyes had opened to the beauty of the 
world — other beauty than I had ever known, and by 
degrees I learned to see things with her eyes. But 


70 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


her look and longing continually soared beyond this {. 
world, which could not satisfy her deepest desire, f. 
And can you believe it, she drew me after her. t 
What power, what influence in so tender, so fragile a i 
creature ! It cost her no effort. I followed, followed, ' 
as though hei' soul were a beacon in darkness. J 
listened to her voice as to the guidance of a pro- 
phetess, directing my sight to a rapture of bliss. A 
new world, — a world of the spirit, — opened to my 
wondering gaze, a vision of life eternal dawning ;■ 
slowly beyond. I do remember them, those blissful 
hours lifting my soul from the dust. Ah, God in 
heaven, what hours, what recollections, and now — ; 

what despair! 

But under that gentle influence I began to look 
backward also, and to feel ashamed — ashamed of the 
love I had felt for Lily. It was love — yes, such as I 
could give, disgracing that sacred name, a love which 
would have frightened her to death had she known 
it She was spared the horror of that discoveiy. 

Another spring was at hand, we were thinking of 
moving homewards. Lily had suffered lately from 
somewhat alarming symptoms — spasms of the heart, 
the doctor said. But we would not disquiet ourselves, 
hoping nothing serious would supervene. Lily within 
these eighteen months had blossomed to such fulness 
of life, her measure overflowing, as it were, with youtn K 
and beauty, and adding to our happiness daily. It .J 
had rendered us fearless. But a strange anxiety took 5 
hold of Lily, showing itself whenever we spoke of p 
returning home. I tried to discover what moved her, 1 
and to my utter astonishment, it appeared that an I 
unsatisfied longing filled her heart That old desire 1 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


7i 


of her childhood to see the Holy Land had suddenly 
possessed her afresh ; or perhaps the thought, as a 
hidden spark, had lived within her all these years. 
She entreated me not to take her home before she 
had set foot on the sacred soil, be it for ever so short 
a time. She could never rest, she thought, till she 
had been there, and if I would but take her thither, 
she would bless me for it even in heaven. 

I viewed her desire merely in the light of a 
childish fancy, even a foolish whim ; yet in my secret 
heart I admired the faithful persistence with which 
' evidently she had clung to that early love; it touched 
me, and I resolved, as far as lay with me, that her 
wish should be gratified. Indeed, she might have 
asked for a far more foolish thing, and I could not 
have found it in me to deny her. When she begged 
i for anything with that submissive angel look of hers, 
who could have resisted ! 

■ I consulted my mother ; she demurred but eventu- 
i ally agreed. We had spent those early spring days 
i cruising about the Ionian Isles, and before long our 
faces were set to the east. Lily thanked me with a 
I look, a sweet loving look, which remained deathless 
’ in my heart — yea, and it will burn there with a pain 
I unquenchable throughout the ages of hell. But 
I from that hour a heavenly peace had settled on her. 
Silence had fallen upon her, but she was perfectly 
happy. 

I A few words more and my story will be ended- 
j Why should I add to my grief by speaking about it? 
I But retrospect is not the least of hell’s torments. 

1 We touched at the coast of Palestine and dis- 
i embarked. As a queen I led her to the land of hei 


72 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


desire, myself being the first of her servants. But 
her thoughts were not of queenship ; to her own 
mind she was but a humble pilgrim. Slowly we 
proceeded from one sacred spot to another. Lily’s 
illness was more serious than we guessed, but she 
pv^ould not hear of rest. She was suffering from 
heart-disease which had rapidly developed. The 
end was as sudden as unlooked for. At Bethlehem, 
in a convent which received us for charity’s sake, 
she breathed her last, a few days before she had 
completed her seventeenth year. She died with the 
satisfied smile of a saint on her face, for her desire 
had been given her. 

Death with her had lost its terror. As one 
glorified she lay — pale, but in heavenly beauty ; her 
hands folded on her virgin bosom where the world 
had not entered. 

Perhaps you will scarcely believe my words, that 
even in those last hours, and though I sickened with 
the sense of certain loss, she had power to lift me 
high above perishable grief A fearless trust had 
come to me that, no matter what affliction re- 
mained on earth, the place was prepared where I 
might be united with her, where there is no more 
sorrow and no more pain, where death has passed 
away. 

Terrible delusion ! 

Her last words fell on my heart as a blessing 
from the upper world : 

‘Thanks, Philip! I am happ)' — God be with 
you ! ’ . . . 

I was stricken with grief But my inmost soui 
was buoyeii vdth the hope that soon I, too, might 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


73 


rise beyond the reach of sorrow. In a holy kiss her 
last breath had mingled with mine 

But scarcely was she gone when the old self- 
willed nature within me rose. Goaded to despair I 
was wild with the knowledge of bereavement — what 
a treasure I had lost, both of beauty and affection, 
what riches of promise, of joys untasted. And how 
near I had been to dreams realised — but a few days 
and she would have been mine ! As a wild beast I 
raged, defrauded of its prey. She — she had escaped 
me ! This then was the reward of years of patience 
and self-denial. In her I had saved up treasures — 
pleasures untold, to lose it all by a single blow ! . . . 
And yet was it not meet it should be so ? Should 
I not rejoice that she was spared the sad future that 
awaited her, the unholy touch of my passion ? I 
could not rejoice then, Lily, but I think I could 
now — if I were not in hell ! 

My mother too was grieved, but she did not lose 
her composure ; she sorrowed more for me, I think, 
than for the loss of her we had loved. We buried 
Lily in the Holy Land. She sleeps beneath a 
sycamore, not far from the spot where the Saviour 
of men was born. 

We turned homeward On our journey back 1 
found Martin. 

Thus I became the man I was. I gave myself 
up tD the world, and lived only for its pleasures. I 
loved no one but myself, excepting perhaps, my 
mother and the boy I had adopted. I say perhaps, 
for that I really loved them I cannot now be sure. 
I conformed to outward Christianity, but my heart 
was far from it. True, I joined not the sinners who 


74 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Dpenly sit in the seat of the scornful, laughing at all 
things sacred ; but after Lily’s death there was in 
reality nothing left I counted sacred, unless it be an 
occasional recollection of my own childhood left far, 
far behind. For at times I did remember those early 
days at Aunt Betty’s knee, but I closed my heart, 
driving these thoughts away from it. 

Life dealt gently with my mother. She preserved 
her charms, and continued the perfect lady, admired 
by all. She had always been pious, but she took 
to being saintly now, trying hard to show me 
the way of life. However, she could not bring 
me further than that, for her sake, I paid proper 
attention to Christian observances, and, for my 
own sake, to common decency in the pursuit of 
pleasure. 

Let me stop here and rest from the pain of con- 
fession. Do not imagine that confessing with us is 
followed by relief. I am in hell, where there is or 
more repentance, no more sorrow for sia 


LETTER VII. 


I Light increases slowly, but we never reach further 
than a kind of luminous twilight — the reflection o' 
Paradise. Time passes amid suffering, torture, and 
regret. Do not imagine that because I can write 
what perchance interests you, it follows that it inter- 
ests me, or that I can fill up my time. That, too, is 
but imaginary ; time seems to pass, but alleviation 
there is none. Upon earth the worst misery yields 
to the consolation that, sooner or later, it must come 
to an end. But here — awful fact — time itself is 
endless ! 

Memories ! memories ! Facts long since for- 
I gotten, here they are, as though they had happened 
“ but yesterday. I try to escape them, and once 
I more recollections of Aunt Betty are something of 
an anodyne. In thinking of her, and her invariable 
kindness to me throughout the years of my child- 
hood, I long for tears of gratitude. But the eye is 
diy’ as a parched desert. How good she was to me, 
but kindest oi all to my father ! And how loving 
to all whom she could serve. The humblest was 
not beneath her, if she could lend him a helping 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 




hand. How often would she sit up for my mother, 
sending the tired maid to bed. How often would 
she spend an evening with the servant girls, showing 
them how to make their own clothes, and teaching 
them the art of laying by something out of their 
wages. She would read to them, and amuse them 
to keep them steady, and was actually going to 
teach the coachman his letters. But there my father 
interfered, introducing him to a night-school instead. 

Her health was anything but strong, yet she 
never considered herself when the burdens of others 
could be lightened. If ever anything made her 
angry, it was the request to take care of herself 
‘ / ?’ she would say, as if the most monstrous 
demand had been proffered, */? — what do you 
mean She had put self so far away that the idea 
of caring for it appeared to her almost ludicrous. 
Love gave her a wondrous power of self-command. 
When my mother had hurt her feelings — no rare 
occurrence I fear — and she had brushed away the 
tears, she never failed doing a special turn of sisterly 
service with a face of angelic devotion ; anxious to 
appear all the more light-hearted in my father’s 
presence, if perchance he had noticed it, and looked 
distressed. Of course her own loving and hopeful 
disposition assisted her in ever making the best of 
things ; but more than this, it was the divine spirit 
moving in her. Love had become second nature 
to her. And love always helped her in doing the 
right thing, however strangely she might set about it 
Her education had been neglected, even as regards 
religious knowledge. If you had asked her the 
simplest questions about faith and hope and charity 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


77 


she would probably have startled you with ignorant 
answers ; but she Jtad these things, and they made 
her a child of heaven. 

The room she had chosen for herself was simple, 
but her own neatness pervaded it. Yet one could 
not say there was any order in her room. Every 
available space was littered with objects great and 
small in wonderful variety, offering to the observant 
mind a key to my aunt’s inmost nature ; for amid 
valuables of every description there were articles 
only fit for the dust-bin apparently. But my aunt 
knew why she valued them. They were a sort of 
landmarks, in her estimation, by which her life’s 
history could be traced. Even at an early age I 
had a vague notion of the sanctity of these relics 
and must own I handled them reverently. They 
would set my fancy going, and I would invent 
stories where auntie’s authentic knowledge appeared 
loth to lift the veil. 

Aunt Betty, as a rule, dressed more than simply, 
despising all pretence at fashion in her daily life. 
Not that she ‘ could not an’ she would,* as she used 
to say. And she valued a handsome present now 
and then, not for the sake of the object itself, but as 
a mark of people’s regard for her. She liked to be 
thus honoured by those, for whom she spent herself 
in service ! Both my father and my mother lost 
no opportunity of presenting her with costly gifts, 
articles of dress especially, if my mother was the 
giver. Aunt Betty would accept these things with 
almost childish satisfaction, shutting them jp forth- 
with in her spacious wardrobe. And thus it came 
about tJiat she owned quite an array of millineiy, 


78 


LETTERS FROM HELL, 


shawls, mantles, bonnets, laces, furs, and n^hat not, 
without ever wearing them. That they grew cld- 
fashioned did not trouble her in the least ; but that 
the moth should not eat them was her conscien- 
tious care. For this reason she would hold regular 
exhibitions, when bed, table, and chairs were loaded 
with her treasures by way of giving them an airing ; 
she walking about with a quiet expression of owner- 
ship, her gentle hands smoothing out or dusting her 
finery. But her eyes seemed far away. Or, if a 
gay mood supervened, she would even place a 
feathered bonnet on her dear old head, looking at 
herself in the glass with a peculiar smile, as though 
she were comparing the once maiden Betty, whose 
youth and beauty brought homage to her feet, with 
the aging spinster whom the world scarcely knew 
now, whose life had run in the narrow channel of 
sacrifice. ‘ I am an old goose,’ she would say, 
putting up her gear with her lavender bags. 

But auntie, besides these things, owned a small 
library of choice works, beautifully bound. She 
would dust them as lovingly as those unused gar- 
ments. But she never read them, having neither 
time nor quiet, she said. ‘ Some day when I am 
old, and no longer needed, I will read them all,’ she 
would add. Among her many peculiarities her habit 
of reading aloud deserves notice. Understanding 
in her case, presupposed hearing, which proves that 
the art of reading with her never reached beyond the 
rudimentary stage. Poor Aunt Betty, keeping your 
books for a time when you are no longer needed I 
But that time found you singing psalms with the 
angels. 


LETTERS FROM HELl. 


79 


j In the dusk of the evening I wouxd often seek 
' her room. I would find her sitting in silence 
I and lost in thought. But she was never annoyed 
at my disturbing her — she loved me too much for 
that. And then she would begin telling me stories, 
quite a special gift with her. I doubt not but that 
, she mostly made up her stories as she told them. 

What if they were no great literary productions, they 
j breathed a poetry of their own — a warmth and loving- 
kindness that fascinated my childish heart. It was 
1 Aunt Betty who first instructed me in religion. If 
i her teaching was not exactly dogmatic, it was most 
truly practical. The impressions it left — so deep, so 
sweet, so tender — how could they ever fade away ! 

One evening we were sitting by her window. 
The sky was clear and the stars were shining witl 
unusual brightness. The wondrous sight impressed 
my childish mind. No doubt I had noticed them 
before ; but looking back to that hour, it seems as 
though on that evening I first beheld the sparkling 
lights of heaven. I wanted to know what the stars 
»vere, and what was behind them. Then Aunt Betty 
spoke to me of the dwelling-place of our Heavenly 
Father and its many mansions of indescribable 
beauty. I would go there some day on leaving 
earth,- if I were a good and holy child. 

The prospect pleased me, but curiosity was not 
satisfied. I u anted to know more — I wanted a direct 
answer to my question. Now, many an instructor of 
youth might have been puzzled, but Aunt Betty’s 
imagination was far too fertile to be so easily at 
fault. She continued therefore: ‘Behind the stars, 
my child ‘here is a grand beautiful hall of glcry 


8o 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


such as eye has not seen, and there God sits upon 
His throne with the only-begotten Son at His right 
hand. Right in the middle of the hall there is a 
Christmas tree, higher than the highest mountain 
on earth, full of lights and most beautiful presents. 
And who do you think are gathered beneath that 
tr^e ? — why, all the good children who, having lived 
holy lives, have come to be children of God and 
blessed angels. There they are, always happy, 
always good. They rejoice at the tree which is 
prepared for them, and praise God with new songs, 
their voices ringing sweetly through the spaces of 
heaven. The presents on the tree are all theirs — I 
mean they are always being given to them — yet the 
tree is never empty.’ 

I thought this delightful. * But what are the 
stars?’ I said, reverting to my question. 

‘ The stars, child ? — well, I will tell you,’ said 
auntie. ‘ Right round that hall there are innumerable 
little peep-holes through which the light of the 
Christmas tree shines upon earth. We call them 
stars. Whenever the little angel-children have done 
singing, they go and look through these peep-holes, 
anxious to know whether boys and girls on earth are 
trying to be good, and likely to join them some day ; 
for they consider them their little brothers and sisters, 
and wish them to become as happy as they are. 
Whenever you see the stars therefore, you must re- 
member that through each one of them the eye of some 
angel looks down upon you. That is why the stars 
twinkle, just as these big eyes of yours twinkle as 
you look at me. Now you see that you must 
always try to be good and obedient, else some angels 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Si 


eyes would fill with tears ; and you would not like 
\\ them to be sad while watching you.* 

) This account so moved me that tears rose to my 
own eyes, and I lay sobbing in Aunt Betty’s lap. It 
^ was the desire of knowing more which first tended 
j \ to quiet me : 

! - ‘ But, auntie,’ I said, * tell me what happens to all 

! the bad children ?’ 

1 5 This question very nearly puzzled her. She was 
i* too tender-hearted to speak to me of hell and its 
I terrors, so she said : * The bad children — well, I think 
I they are put into some dark corner — far, far away 
I ; from God and His dear Son.’ 

I * Again I was not satisfied ; there must be more. 

‘ Well,’ she continued, — * listen. The bad children 
, are shut up in an ugly room, where the fire has gone 
! out, and where it is so cold and miserable that they 
j chatter with their teeth. It is dark too, for the light 
i has been taken away, and they tremble with fear, 
i They cry and knock at the door as hard as they can, 
- but no one pays any attention.’ 

I thought that dreadful. * I am frightened, 
auntie,’ I whispered, pressing quite close to her. 

I ‘ Look up at the stars, my child,’ she said ; * then 
you won’t be frightened.’ And she stroked my hair 
! lovingly. 

I Fear left me. The stars did twinkle as though 
they said, * Be good, little child;’ and I felt quite 
' ready to be good. 

‘ I should like to hear them sing,* I went on 

I presently. * Do you know, auntie, how angels sing ?' 
* I will try and show you,’ she responded, falling 

I in at on^e with my desire. And with her sweet 


82 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


voice she sang to mt one of her favourite hymns^ 
How beautiful it sounded in the evening twilight 
There was nothing grand about her voice, but some- 
thing so childlike in its gentle tones that the song 
sank into my heart as I kept watching the stars ; 
and they seemed to look down upon me as kind aa 
auntie herself, twinkling again and again, ‘Be good !' 
Another moment, and my hearing was charmed, fol- 
lowing my gaze. Earth was not, but only heaven, 
and auntie’s hymn was the new song of angels. I 
.istened with a rapt devotion that swelled my childish 
soul, folding my hands unconsciously as Aunt Betty 
had taught me ; and I tried to twinkle back at the 
stars with my own eyes to let them see that with 
my ears, with my heart, I was listening to their 
angels. 

When the singing ceased and silence had carried 
me back to the present, I felt quite poor and for- 
saken. But all that night in dreams I saw the 
heavenly tree, and heard the songs of glory. 

Many an evening we spent like that. Aunt Betty 
singing, and I watching the stars. And before long 
I had learned her hymns and we sang them together. 
I believe it was with auntie as with myself : singing 
our hymns to the praise of God, we felt both carried 
away from earth, both longing for that which is 
l^hind the stars. 

One evening Aunt Betty told me the story of the 
rich man and poor Lazarus. It greatly affected me 
I was very glad for the poor beggar to have beer 
carried right into Abraham’s bosom, where he was so 
happy ; but the rich man longing in the torment of 
hell for a little drop of water moved my deepest pity 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


8j 


I grieved for him, shedding an agony of tears. Poor 
rich man, how hard it was to punish him so dread- 
fully I Auntie was quite unhappy at my distress. 
No doubt she meant to impress me, but not in this 
way, and she tried her utmost to calm my feelings. 

‘ Don’t take it to heart so much, child,’ she said. 
‘ I do not think you need. And it was very unkind 
of Father Abraham to deny him a poor drop of 
' water. God, I dare say, did not like that at all ; 

I indeed, if I know Him aright, I should not be sur- 
I prised if Father Abraham had a scolding for it. For 
if a drop of water could comfort the rich man in his 
torment, I don’t believe God would have refused it. 
And He who freely gave His precious blood would 
not be so unkind about mere water. And, moreover, 
didn’t you hear that the rich man even in hell 
I remembered his brethren ? That, I am quite certain, 

, pleased God very much indeed. Love to the brethren 
cannot but move the heart of God, even if it comes 
; right from the midst of hell.* 

; Thus she comforted me. She would not have 
hesitated to say a great deal more than this to 
j still my grief Poor Aunt Betty ! — I said she could 
not dogmatise : the one creed she was sure of was 
I God’s wonderful love ; and judging that love by her 
j own loving heart, she believed it fully capable of 
flooding all creation with its own indwelling good- 
ness. But why do I call her poor? It is I who 
am poor — all the poorer for memories ! I will not 
cah them painful memories, though I ache with 
them. Do you understand me ? Even in hell 
something precious is bound up with such memories, 
though on the other hand it cannot but add to grief — 


84 


LETTERS FROM KELT. 


just as a certain sweetness in some viands brings out 
the fact that they are sour. I speak of childhood’s 
memories : those of later years, save those connected 
with Lily, are all sorrow — all despair; I would gladly 
forget them, but it is part of my punishment that I 
cannot. 

Thus I distinctly remember the religious instruc- 
tion which was to prepare me for confirmation. I 
was deeply moved, and hardly know how such im- 
pressions should pass so quickly, so entirely, as 
though they had not been. The clergyman in 
question was as godly as venerable ; the animal 
nature was strong in me even then, but he knew how 
to keep it under. It needed but a look of his eye, 
and I felt a prisoner to the divine, listening anxiously 
to his teaching. He had a rare gift of touching the 
heart and drawing it out. He spoke to us on the 
words ; * Be ye reconciled to God !’ How could I 
ever forget those words ? Alas, I did forget them, 
but now they pierce the soul ; they keep ringing in 
the brain: ‘Be reconciled — be reconciled to God!’ 
And when once their memory is upon me, nothing 
will drive it out, till some other recollection, sorr*'' 
other pain, takes their place. 

I remember all he said on that occasion, — I re- 
member it now from beginning to end, — but I could 
not repeat it, there being a great gulf between now and 
the time of those words. Nor can the recollection of 
them do me any good ; they are barren of comfort, of 
instruction — barren entirely of peace. It is only my 
mind which takes them in now; the h^art is closed. It 
is as though the words were hollow ; or perhaps I am 
hollow and empty, and there is nothing left that ca’* 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


85 


) 


I 

) 


fill me. I do remember that he spoke to us of God’s 
own word, whereby salvation was offered to men, but 
all that is outside of me only. I am like the rich 
man thirsting for a drop of water, but there is no 
one to give it. I make painful efforts to drink in, 
as it were, any of the words I think of ; they are 
there ; I once knew them by heart, but I cannot lay 
hold of them. They seem quite close at times, but 
when I would take them to myself, they are gone. 
This terribly hopeless effort is perhaps the worst of 
hell’s torments. 

^ You may understand from this how it is possible 
with me to speak of things pertaining to the king- 
dom of God — naming the Saviour, the Crucified 
One, speaking of repentance and faith — without the 
faintest share in their blessing ; nay, mentioning them 
with my lips merely, despair filling the heart. 
Everything is vain and empty in hell : those words 
are but soulless sounds to me ; I know them out- 
wardly, 1 can speak of them, but their meaning is 
nothing to me. I know that there is a Saviour, and 
that He is the Son of God, but Him I know not ; it 
is empty knowledge ; His very name even is gone. 
I hate myself, and say I have deserved it all ; but it 
is fruitless repentance — repentance without cleansing 
tears. And as for faith, of course I believe — must 
believe ; but that too is empty — not faith which 
clings to that which it believes. Do not the devils 
believe — they must — and tremble ? ‘ Be reconciled 

to God !’ What power these words had to move 
me ! I felt in that hour as though it must be man’s 
one and only object on earth to seek reconciliation 
with God, and, having found it, to go to Him through 


86 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the portal of death. I remembered the stars and 
their loving message, ‘ Be good!’ and I felt ready 
to turn my back upon the world once for all. My 
first communion was as an earnest that I had set 
my feet upon the path to heaven, but I quickly 
turned aside ; at the very church door the world lay 
waiting with its pleasant road to hell. 

‘Be reconciled to God!’ — the words keep sound- 
ing about me, not as an echo from heaven, but rather 
as a curse of hell. ‘ Be reconciled — reconciled to 
God!’ Why must I hear it when there is no more 
reconciliation^ — when the door of mercy is closed. 

0 terrible retribution ! 

If at times I know not what to do with myself, 

1 show myself in the Row, for of course that 
too is here — Hyde Park, Champs Elysees, Prater, 
Unter den Linden, Corso, Prado, all in one. And 
upon my word I do not think there is much 
difference between these fashionable resorts upon 
earth and their semblance here — I mean so far as 
what the world pleases to call style is concerned ; 
we could scarcely outdo the world in that respect, 
but we have far more variety. For with you but 
one fashion can prevail at a time, whereas here 
all fashions flourish, all the nonsense of centuries 
combined. Just think of that — all the inventions of 
la mode brought together, say of a thousand years ! 
Could there be a more absurd picture, taking the 
fashion of dress for instance ? Whatever gloom or 
wretchedness be upon me, I assure you I laugh right 
out at the sight — folly convicted out of its own 
mouth as it wsi-j. Just stop for a moment and 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


«7 

imagine the effect — women covered to the neck with 
flounces and furbelows on the one hand, or half naked 
on the other ; puffed out to deformity here, tight as 
pump-handles there. Bonnets like coal-scuttles here, 
bonnets like cheese-plates there ! But who could 
name all their nonsense of farthingales and stomach- 
ers, ruffles and laces, crinolines and high-art-styles 
[ fancy costumes and divided skirts ? not to mention 
' chignons like very towers of Babel, and simpleton 
I fringes, and what not Imagine them, I say, the fools 
of ten years only brought together, and try to think 
of the fools of ten centuries ! And then to believe 
any one fashion beautiful, any one of them dictated 
by the ‘ good taste ’ to which they all pretend. In 
the world somehow they pass for beautiful, perhaps 
because only one at a time can rule ; but since 
every fashion which has had its day straightway goes 
to hell, and jince there is no past here but a con- 
tinuous present, they all flourish together, and a 
nice medley it is ! One feels ashamed of humanity 
It the absurd sight. And what is more, fashionable 
people here are thoroughly ashamed of themselves, 

I though they try hard to appear very proud of their 
clothes. It is a show of vanity, and we are horribly 
I conscious of it — I say we, since I am sure I am no 
I better than the rest. We know what sorr}" fools we 
are, but nevertheless we are very anxious to dress 
ourselves, choosing the fashion we followed in the 
world. And the worst is, our clothes do not even 
clothe us, as I told you already ; we all see through 
each other’s ittire, no matter how stylish it is. True, 
that painful sense of nakedness is common to all 
here ; still tv be naked is one thing, and to go about 


LETTERS FROM HELL 




naked, pretending at the same time to be fashionably 
dressed, is another ; and it is very hard to be laughed 
at, knowing all the while how heartily one deserves it 

Would all the votaries of fashion, men and 
women on earth, could view — were it for a moment 
only — its true appearance as seen in hell, and they 
would never desire to be fashionable again ! 

It is strange — no, not strange, but sadly true — 
that most people believe vanity and the love of 
dress no great sin, but, at worst, only one of those 
amiable foibles to which one may plead guilty quite 
innocently. 

Love of dress in itself perhaps need not become 
a sin — I say perhaps ; but look at it as you please, 
there is that connected with it which cannot but tend 
to the soul’s ruin. Its aims and the aims of the 
spirit lie widely apart ; it takes the place of bettei 
things, and vanity, clinging to you as a cloud, will 
hide the true objects of life. Men or women ruled 
by vanity fritter away their time, and when they die 
not only good works do not follow them, but oppor- 
tunities wasted stand round their bier. Who has the 
face now to say that vanity, that love of dress, is 
harmless ? 

I look upon my own life. How plainly I see it 
all now, — how gladly would I improve opportunities, 
could they but return ! 

I am inclined to conclude this letter with a little 
story I once heard somewhere in Italy, feeling loth 
at the same time to do so, for there are things about 
which one should not speak jestingly, least of all in 
hell. 

However, the thing is not without its lesson, which 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


89 


may be useful to you. Nor is it fear that would 
prevent me, but rather an instinctive dread, a kind 
of repugnance, to appear making light of a solemn 
verity. It is a sort of burlesque myth, but contain- 
ing that which should not be laughed at. Here it is; 

God from all eternity had purposed in His counsel 
to make man. And the devil from the beginning 
knew the mind of God. God carried out His eternal 
purpose. He made man, and it was easy for Him 
to make him good : He simply created him in His 
own image. But the devil made desperate efforts to 
discover how he might mar this image of God. 

‘I have got it!* said Lucifer to his grandmother, 
who sat knitting in a dark corner of hell. She was 
always knitting toils and looping snares to catch the 
unwary, though, being a person of property, she had 
no need to work so hard. 

‘ I have got it I* repeated Lucifer. ‘ I will put 
evil desire into man’s heart, so that he shall love the 
forbidden, and delight in disobedience. I will make 
a wrongdoer of him.’ 

‘All right, my boy — all right,’ said the granddame; 
‘but that won’t do it. Evil desire may be con- 
quered, and the Lord God is the One to do it* 

‘The deuce!’ cried Lucifer. ‘You may be right 
though ; I’ll think of something else.’ And down he 
went to the nethermost hell, where he had his private 
study. And there he spent a thousand years in 
deepest meditation, staring into the future with burn- 
ing eyes. 

‘ I have got it !’ he cried again, rushing up in a 
whirlwind. ‘ I shall fill the heart of man with self- 
love and self-will. I shall infatuate him so entirely 


90 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


that he will ever think of himself first. I shall make 
a vainglorious wretch of him, more or less, as the 
case may be.’ 

‘ All right, my boy, all ’ But here she 

dropped a stitch. ‘ Catch up a firebrand — that’ll do, 
I see ! Yes, my boy, all right ; but that won’t do it 
Self-love and self-will may be rooted out, and the 
Lord God is the One to do it’ 

‘ Confound it,’ roared Lucifer, ‘that these silly crea- 
tures should be so hard to ruin. They are scarcely 
worth the trouble. But I shall get them, — pazienza^ 
I mean to get them !’ And away he went to con- 
•sider the matter once more in his study. 

A thousand years again had passed — he knew it 
not ; and returning from his cogitation, the grand- 
dame still sat knitting on the spot where he had 
left her. She was so old that a thousand yeans 
did not add so much as a wrinkle to her ugly 
skin. She seemed more intent than ever upon her 
work. 

‘Now I have got it!’ cried Satan exultingly. *I 
myself will take up my abode in man’s heart and 
will utterly pervert him. He shall take falsehood 
for truth, vice for virtue, shame for honour. I’ll 
make a fool of him — a fool of perversity.’ 

‘ My boy,’ said the grandmother, gloating over 
her meshes, ‘ that won’t do it, my boy. What has 
been perverted can be converted, and the Lord God 
is the One to do it* 

* I shall give it up,* growled the devil despond- 
‘ it quite spoils m} digestion ; however, I will 
make one more effort.’ 

Another thousa.id years rolled on without record 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


9 ' 


dr almanac and no one could tell what had become 
of them. 

Ortce more Lucifer returned to his aged relative ; 
he really did look worn arxl in need of a tonic. , The 
devil’s grandmother, strange to say, had done knitting, 
nets and snares in untold quantity being ready for 
ages to come. She sat twiddling her thumbs and 
, longing for her hopeful progeny — lovable or hateful, 

I he was her only one. 

. ‘Sure, I’ve got it now!’ exclaimed Lucifer, entering 
I her presence. ‘ Vanity shall be man’s second nature, 
! — vanity and love of dress. I will make an ape of 
him, and as an ape he shall delight in himself, and 
become a laughing-stock to his neighbour.’ 

‘ That’s it,’ cried the granddame, delighted, her 
ugly cat’s eyes turning greener and greener. ‘Your 
I former plans were all very useful in their way, but 
they lacked one thing — they were not nearly simple- 
I seeming enough really to beguile him. For, however 
i evil of desire, however self-willed and perverse man 
I might become, he would always have a feeling left 
that something was wrong ; there is such a thing as 
I conscience, remember, putting most men on their 
' guard as regards great wickedness. Nor is there 
I any saying what the Lord God in His infinite love 
I for human souls ma) not devise towards keeping 
them straight 

‘ Vanity, however, is quite another thing, and love 
of dress, how harmless 1 A most precious invention 
of yours, my boy. Vanity, I declare, will become 
great upon earth ; it looks so innocent, no one will 
suspect it Poor things, why should they not amuse 
themselves with their looking - glasses and their 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


faddles ? What more excusable than to spend the 
time in adorning oneself — in trying to look pretty 
and appear amiable in society? Yes, men will all 
yield to vanity, for they will not suspect it. Vanity 
shall be the door through which all other wickedness, 
evil desire, self-love and perversity, will find a ready 
entrance ; vanity, I say, seemingly harmless, will take 
them to hell. True, the Lord God still is able to do 
what He pleases ; we must not forget that. But I 
am not an old woman for nothing, and have known 
a few things in my time. I cannot see for the life 
of me how God should care to stop any fool who, 
with the happiest conscience imaginable, and delight- 
ing in his well-dressed appearance, goes trotting com- 
placently to hell.* 

The old she-fiend had become quite excited ; she 
shook herself, and her skin, wrinkled and loose with 
age, hung about her as the skin of a snake. 

‘ I am proud of you, my boy, and I will help you,* 
she continued. ‘ It’s about the time that I should 
cast my skin, and it is just the thing you want. I 
will make it appear very lovely, as, after all, is but 
natural, since it is part of my very own nature ; it 
shall be varied and many-coloured, and every fool 
shall delight in it It will remain with you to make 
them accept it, but that will be easy, with their apish 
predilection for anything new and startling — you’ll 
see the consequences, diavolino. They’ll worship a 
new goddess. Fashion by name ; they’ll believe her 
the most harmless of idols, and they’ll never suspect 
— ha ! ha !— that it is nothing more or less than my 
cast-off skin ! Fashion will be the prop of vanity, 
and men will frittei away their life in hollow pursuit 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


93 


The ape in man will have the upper hand, and the 
' novelty of fashion will be endless. But now give 
me a hand, and I will forthwith cast my skin. I 
am quite stiff for want of exercise.* 

Lucifer was delighted. ^ Per bacchol he cried, 
‘it’s a bright idea !’ 

And, catching up the old grandmother, he danced 
about with her wildly, to the wonderment of hell. 

; And the devil’s granddame was beside herself with 
laughter, bursting almost with merriment. 

‘ They’ll worship my skin, diavolinol she cried • 
‘they’ll worship my skinl’ 


LETTER VIII. 

IT may surprise you to hear me speak of books in 
hell, but you will soon perceive the fitness of things, 
it being neither more nor less than this : whatever is 
bad must come to hell, so of printed matter whatever 
is morally evil or arrogantly stupid tends hitherwards 
the books arriving first, the authors following, and 
their publishers along with them. You will under- 
stand then that we are well off for literature, of a 
certain description, that is to say. 

Polite literature for instance has provided us with 
countless novels, very popular, if trashy and some- 
times immodest. There is no civilised nation or 
country that has not produced its share, varying in 
quantity or quality. They seem represented by two 
species chiefly — one can hardly call them schools — 
the purely sensational and the sensationally impure ; 
the former being content to hint where the latte i 
touch boldly, the former often supremely worthless, 
where the latter are wickedly ingenious. Many 
authors, and especially some authoresses, appear to 
find their life’s duty in pandering to depraved taste, 
or worse, in fostering it. I might mention names, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


95 


but I refrain. Only let me assure these experts of 
the pen, ladies and gentlemen, that they are well 
known here. No doubt it will create quite a flutter 
in their bosoms, adding not a little to their sense of 
fame, to learn that their talent is so extensively 
appreciated, and that their books are fashionable, not 
only in polite society on earth, but even in hell ! 
There is this drawback, to be sure, to damp their 
spirits, that for the present they must be satisfied 
with mere honour — pay being withheld till they 
themselves join their circle of readers here. Then 
their reward shall be given them in this matter also. 

This branch of the so-called belles-lettres ^ trashy 
novels, is greatly in vogue upon earth ; it is not the 
good books which chiefly enrich the publishers, or 
authors either. There are people whose intellectual 
food consists in nothing but the former ; but the 
soul lives not that could testify to mental or spiritual 
growth by their aid. If the use of such books is 
null on earth, what must it be here, where not even 
the miserable object remains of whiling away the 
time ? 

But to proceed : there is no lack here even of 
theological writings — especially of modern com- 
mentaries, but also of the dogmatic and homiletical 
kind. To speak plainly, how many a book of fine 
sermons or of religious comfort arrives here, preceding 
the hireling shepherds ! With casuistry too we are 
thoroughly provided. The Middle Ages are repre- 
sented chiefly by a vast amount of priestly falsehood, 
systematised into all sorts of fanatical quibbles and 
sacerdotal inventions concerning the deep questions 
of religion. The more modern school may be said 


96 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


to have reached a climax in the days of Voltaire and 
the encyclopedists, taking a fresh start with Kant 
and his followers. You observe I speak broadly, in 
a European sense, refraining from particularising or 
quoting nearer home. You may judge for yourself, 
and be sure that no literary means are wanting here 
to advance the interests of atheism. For, mind you, 
even in hell those who ‘ believe and tremble ’ may 
be brought to a worse state. For the rest, since I 
never troubled myself about theology, either as a 
science or otherwise, I am not likely to study it 
here. 

Besides this so-called true theology, there are 
found with us the writings of those puffed -up, half- 
crazy fanatics, — the false prophets of every degree, 
who make a sort of trade of religion. Their literary 
effusions are generally laughed at, even here ; but in 
most cases the author himself arrives before long, 
and laughter for him turns to weeping. These 
curious divines have a special corner assigned to 
them in this place, differing greatly from the para- 
dise they believed themselves heirs of in virtue of 
their singular calling. 

Philosophy too is well represented. Philosophers 
on the whole are a harmless tribe. Some of them 
may be groping for wisdom which includes goodness 
and piety, and others are merely the victims of some 
peculiar mania which hurts no one. We get the 
writings of those only whom conceit of intellect 
drives to the front. I might quote some curious 
instances, showing how, within a professor’s den, 
some ten feet square, the universe may be grasped, 
the mystery of life solved, eternity gauged ; in fact 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


97 


how the ocean of the infinite may be got into the 
nutshell of a finite brain. 

In passing merely I men on the literature of the 
law. If I ignored it altogether it might be taken 
for disrespect, and I am sure I would r?ther not 
offend the gentlemen of the robe. Let me state the 
plain fact : I reverence justice, but I feel doubtful 
I about lawyers. Did not some sharp-witted urchin 
‘ make the discovery that the devil was a ‘ lawyer ’ 
from the beginning? I would rather wash my 
hands of them, not understanding them in the 
least. 

Last, but not least, I turn to the literary geniuses 
of the reviewing department, at the risk even of 
most dreadfully offending them. No reviewer, I 
presume, would flatter himself with the conceit 
that his dissertations could have any but the most 
ephemeral value ; I feel loth to disabuse their laud- 
able modesty,, but I am bound to let them know 
that some do live — live in hell ! I have made the 
startling discovery that of reviews not a few appear 
to be written in ignorance, or inspired by envy and 
even downright malice. Reviewers form a species 
apart, not nurtured in babyhood, it would seem, with 
the milk of human kindness. I was assured once 
that in ordei to review a book properly, one had 
rieea to be something of a misanthrope — something 
of a cynic at any rate, since barking and biting 
seems to be the g^-eat delight. Be this as it may, I 
have always maintained that reviewers, as a natural 
curiosity, may be divided into two classes — those 
who are capable of passing judgment, and those who 
are not The former, strange to say, cautiously, auH 

7 


98 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


indeed rarely, advance their criticism, and nothing ol 
theirs is ever seen here. 

The latter may be subdivided into professionals 
and amateurs. The first of these who trade, as 
it were, in the reviewing line, will have to plead 
guilty in most cases that they started originally 
with an aspiration of book-writing, but did not suc- 
ceed, They have never got over their disappoint- 
ment. 

The second subdivision consists chiefly — would 
you believe it? — of a set of precocious youths, as 
clever as they are conceited, requiring an outlet for 
their exuberance. I have known them of the age 
of twenty, and even less, feeling grown-up all of a 
sudden by means of their first review : if their criti- 
cism was somewhat green, there was audacity to 
cover it. They don’t mean any special harm, but 
they do feel themselves seated on a throne, duly 
hidden of course, and snubbing authors — their grand- 
fathers in age and experience. 

By dint of numerous reviews, then, we are kept 
au courmit with the events of the book -market. 
Whenever a specially mordant piece of criticism 
arrives here we know that it has been called forth by 
a publication which is probably good and certainly 
harmless. It is the caricature only which reaches 
us ; but it is so, alas, with most things ! 

As for newspapers? — it stands to reason that 
much of the daily food provided in these quarters 
cannot fare any better, since ambition of gain, pri- 
vate or public, unblushingly presides at the board. 
How many a journal has but the one object in view 
■ — the making of moiie)’ ? How many others have 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


99 


actually sold themselves to further the paltry interests 
of this or that party, not caring in the least, in their 
hardened consciences, how far astray they lead the 
public mind ? 

And what shall I say of the appalling amount 
of despatches, notes, and official memoranda inter- 
changed between the various Cabinets for no other 
reason, it would seem, but that of misleading? — 
specimens of ambiguous phraseology, ever appealing 
to truth and justice, but heeding neither truth nor 
justice wherever a chance of gain or even the inter- 
ests of vulgar passion come to the front This sort of 
political documents are rarely got hold of by news- 
papers even ; on earth they are of the things that 
walk in secret, but they fail not to furnish us down 
here with many a curious explanation of historic 
events. I have come to suspect that nothing is 
more outrageously false, and cruel, and opposed to 
every will of God, than what goes by the name of 
higher politics. 

You see from this sketch that we are not at a 
loss for reading, but you will also perceive that the 
vile productions reaching us can nowise tend to 
edify or even really instruct us. If they enable us 
to follow events in the world, it is by a kind of 
inverted effect, suggesting in fact the very opposite 
of what they assert. There is here no pleasure in 
reading ; on the contrary, the more one peruses, the 
more one sickens ; but nauseated though we feel, we 
are unable to get out of the intellectual slough, the 
mire of a lying literature. 

I never imagined while living on earth that I had 
need to render thanks for anything ; that health, 


foo 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


riches, happy days, were gifts to be grateful for, bLt 
rather accepted them as the natural appurtenances 
of my existence ; and if I thought about them at 
all, it was only tc wish for more, for I was never 
satisfied with life as I found it, nor with the world I 
lived in. Now I view things differently ; I see now 
that the gifts of life are blessings unspeakable, and 
all the greater for being entirely undeserved. On 
looking back — and I am ever looking back now, 
there being nothing before me save one thing, awful 
and horrible, the judgment to come — on looking 
back, I say, I am bound to confess that the blessings 
of a single day of life on earth are innumerable as 
the stars. How rich is life ! There may be misery 
and trouble on earth — and I believed I had my full 
share of both — but it has all dwindled to nothing 
since I have come to know the wretchedness of hell. 
Let me assure you out of my own dire experience 
that the most suffering creature on earth has much 
to be thankful for. Man’s life, whatever it be, 
should bring him to his knees daily. And if you 
have nothing left of earth’s blessings but air and 
light, and a piece of bread to satisfy your hunger, 
you have need to give thanks. I see it now, but 
for me it is too late. In hell there is nothing — 
absolutely nothing to be thankful for ; you, however 
whose sun has not yet set, may still learn to yield 
your hearts in gratitude. Ah, hear me, I beseech 
you ; there is no help for me, but help may come 
to you ! 

I have told you, my friend, how continuously I 
am the prey of memories, but how much so— to what 
extent, I mean — ^you little guess. That deeds o/ 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


lOl 


Iniquity an(^ particular sins should assail me, tor- 
menting the soul as with fire, is natural. But this is 
not all. There are other things, counted for little in 
the world, which cling to conscience with a terrible 
vividness. Every little falsehood and unjust dealing, 
every word of deceit and breach of fealty, every evil 
example and want of kindness, — they are all, all 
present now, piercing the heart as with daggers of 
! regret. I thought so little of these things in life, 
that I scarcely stopped to consider them ; they 
I seemed buried on the spot, every year adding its 
I own share to the mouldering heap. They have risen 
now and stand about me, I see them and I tremble. 

I was just thinking of an example, out of 
hundreds which press round me. I take one at 
random. I have felt haunted lately by the sorrow- 
I ful eyes of a poor little street boy. Wherever I 
turn I see him, or rather not so much him as his 
I tearful troubled gaze, rising in judgment against me. 

I It has all come back to my mind how one evening 
I sauntered about in the park, a poor little beggar 
running alongside, pressing me to buy a halfpenny 
worth of matches. I did not want them, and told 
I him so, but he persisted in crying, * Only a ha’penny, 
I sir — only a ha’penny.’ He annoyed me, and, taking 
I him by the arm, I rudely pushed him away. I did 
I not mean to hurt him, although, to tell the truth, 
I there was not a particle of kindness in me at the 
I time. Nor lay the wrong in not buying his matches ; 
I I was quite at liberty to refuse, had I denied him 
I kindly. But he annoyed me and I was angry. 
The child, flung aside roughly, fell in the road ; I 
heard a cry ; perhaps he had hurt himself — perhaps it 


102 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


was only grief for his matches lying about in the 
mud. I turned and met a look from his eyes, full 
of trouble and silent accusation. It would have been 
so easy for me to make good my thoughtlessness, 
so little would have comforted the child, but I walked 
away heedless of his grief. 

Now few people would call that downright wicked- 
ness — few people in the world I mean ; but here, 
unfortunately, we are forced to judge differently. 
Years and years have passed since, for I was a young 
man at the time, but the memory of that child has 
returned upon me, his look of sorrowful reproof 
adding to the pangs of hell. It is but an example, 
as I said, and there are many — many ! 

But not mere deeds — every word of evil care- 
lessly spoken in the days of earthly life comes back 
to me with similar force. As poisoned arrows such 
words once quitted my lips : as poisoned arrows they 
come back to me, piercing the heart. Oh consider 
it while living voice is yours, and speak not lightly I 
There is no saying what harvest of sin may spring 
from a single word. And if pity for others will not 
restrain you, be advised by pity for your own selves, 
since requital will come to yourselves only in the end. 

And not merely deeds and words, but every 
harmful thought recurs to me, to gnaw away at my 
heart. There is a saying with certain philosophers 
in the world that nothing ever is lost. If this be 
true in the material world, how much more so is it 
in spiritual things — ah, terrible truth ! 

And further, apart from the evil done, it is the 
good left undone, the opportunities wasted, which 
stand around me vdth pitiless scourge, and their 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


103 

name is legion ! Thus everything, you see, both 
what I have done and left undone, comes to life 
here in this place of woe, — takes shape, I ought to 
say, — rising in accusation against me. I try to escape, 
but they are about me everywhere, those shapes of 
terror, enough to people a world with despair ; they 
persecute me, they torture me, and I am their 
helpless prey. Memories of the good left undone — 
alas, they are far more bitter than those of the evil 
done ! For temptation to do wrong often was great, 
and in my own strength I failed to conquer ; but to 
do good for the most part would have cost little, if 
any, effort. I see it now with the new insight into 
life which hell gives. The man lives not who is ex- 
cused from leaving good undone ; however poor and 
humbly situated he may be, opportunity is ever at his 
door. It is for him only to open his heart and take 
in the opportunity ; for his own heart is a well of 
power and of blessing to boot. He who is the 
fountain of love and purity, from whom every good 
and perfect gift cometh, has wondrously arranged it, 
that in this respect there is but little difference 
between the rich and the poor, the gentle and the 
simple. Let me conjure you then, brothers and 
sisters, listen to the voice of your heart while yet it 
is day ! Listen, I say, and obey, lest the bitterness 
of repentance overtake you with the night, when no 
man can work ! Ah, let no opportunity for the 
doing of good escape you, for it will rise against you 
when nothing is left but to wail in anguish. 

I do not address these words to those who have 
grown pitiless as flint — none but God could touch 
them ; but there are well-disposed hearts, which a 


104 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ray of light may help to expand. I was not hard- 
hearted while I lived in the world ; on the contrary, 
I could for the most part easily be moved to charity, 
if some one took the trouble to remind me. What 
ruined me was that boundless love of self which pre* 
vented my seeing the wants of others ; or if I did 
see them, I did not stop to consider them. I receive 
now the reward of my deeds. Would that this fear- 
ful experience of mine could work a change in you ; 
that might somewhat assuage my deepest suffer- 
ings ! But even in that much of mercy I cannot 
believe ; the soul in torment can doubt only — doubt 
eternally. 

I cannot but give you another '^xample. I 
remember a poor family living in a miserable cot- 
tage not far from the lordly dwelling I inhabited. 
As often as I passed that way I looked through the 
lowly window, for a bald head moving to and fro in 
measured intervals attracted my notice. It was long, 
however, before I saw the face. The father of a 
numerous family would sit there in ill-health, gaining 
a humble livelihood. It appeared to be not necessity 
alone, but delight in his work also, which kept him 
up. He was a wood-carver of no mean capacity, and 
worked for a wholesale house of children’s playthings 
in the city. Strange to say, he was particularly 
clever in producing all sorts of ravenous beasts — he, 
who looked a personification of meekest mildness. 
Lions, wolves, and tigers graced his window-sill, he 
bearing trouble as a patient lamb. I said he was 
sickly, and the family was large. The wife took in 
washing ; and they helped one another each trying 
to ease the other’s load 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


los 


But misfortune overtook them ; the wholesale 
business failed ; the poor man lost his livelihood. 
The bald head no longer appeared by the window — 
The cottage looked a grave. What had become of 
him ? I once asked myself the question and stopped 
there, for you know self scarcely left me time to 
trouble myself with other people’s affairs. 

Still, opportunity thrust itself in my way. I saw 
him again — not merely his bald head, but himself. 
The poor man, bowed down with ill-health, and 
unused to hard labour, stood working in a brickfield 
with trembling knees. 

I could not but pity him. I knew he was work- 
ing himself to death, trying to gain food for his little 
ones. Indeed, he was in as imminent danger of life 
as if all the lions, wolves, and tigers whose images 
he had carved had gathered round to destroy him. 
I witnessed a touching scene one day. Passing 
about noon I saw the wife there, who had come with 
her husband’s dinner — a dinner I would not have 
looked at. I saw how tenderly she wiped the weary 
forehead, how the children — for they all had come — 
clung to the father, the youngest climbing his knees, 
and how grateful he was for their affection, which 
roused him to new endeavours to gain a miserable 
pittance. 

The sight really moved me ; and I walked away, 
thinking I ought to do something for the struggling 
family. It was easy for me to find some post for 
the man which, while requiring no hard work at his 
hands, would keep them all in comfort. I certainly 
would see to' it, but was called away on business ; 
other things occupied mj mind, and I forgot all 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


to6 


about it I did remember it again after a while, but 
then it was too late. The man had succumbed — the 
family was ruined. 

But there are worse furies than these persecuting 
souls in torment. I cannot tell whether it is by 
imagination only, assisting what, for want of a better 
word, I must call the jugglery of hell, or whether this 
place of damnation has its own actual second sight, but 
it is a fact that sometimes I can see the entire growth 
of evil, spreading over years perhaps, and involving 
soul after soul, originating in some careless word of 
mine which proved to be the seed. I turn away; but 
I am driven to look again and again at the terrible 
consequences, and words cannot express what I feel. 

It is appalling to think of the endless chain of sin 
and misery to which a single act, ay, a word even, 
may give rise. A chain, I say, for it is a frightful 
truth that the evil effect does not always spring from 
the seed as a single stupendous birth, to live and die 
for itself ; but there is a demon power inherent in it 
of begetting and conceiving, wrong bringing forth 
wrong in endless succession. It is by its conse- 
quences, its capability of engulfing others, that the 
worst potency of sin becomes apparent. 

It is of direct evil example, too, I would speak ; 
how fearful is its power — how far-reaching its influ- 
ence ! Whatever wickedness a man may commit in 
the world, what is it as compared with the wrong he 
may be guilty of by his example ? Then sin is as 
a mountain torrent, bursting its banks and carrying 
the unwary headlong to destruction. You may be 
dead yourself, yzt your sin may live, yielding a ter 
rible harvest. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


107 


It was in this respect that the demon ruling my 
life did its worst ; I went my sinful course, flinging 
evil seed about me, and stopped not to consider how 
many I might bring to ruin. 

Do you understand ? perhaps not lUlly. Let me 
return to memories. 

I happened once to spend an evening with some 
dozen youths gathered for social intercourse. I was 
much older, and it was quite by accident that I 
found myself among them ; but, enjoying the reputa- 
tion of a boon companion, they entreated me to re- 
main. It flattered me and I stayed. They evidently 
looked to me for information, which made me all the 
more willing to show off my superior experience. 
Being a witty talker, I added not a little to the 
evening’s enjoyment. We made little speeches, sang, 
and drank to each other. Now I knew that these 
young people would take as gospel truth almost 
anything I might tell them, believing any worldly 
wisdom I might point to as the road to success 
The concluding word was given to me. I rose, 
ready to give them the benefit of my knowledge 
‘Dare to be happy!’ was the motto I chose. I 
reminded them of the position I enjoyed in the 
world, averring that my life was brimful of satis- 
faction ; that I had always had whatever man could 
wish for, and that I had had it because I had dared. 
It was true in all things that faint heart never won 
fair lady ; there was a treasure of wisdom in these 
words beyond the treasures of Solomon. They were 
just entering upon life. I could give them no better 
advice to go by — no better aim to follow — than was 
expressed by these words; ‘ Dare it — dare be happy P 


io8 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


They thanked me with cheers of enthusiasm. 
They were flushed with wine, but another spirit than 
that of wine lay hidden in my words ; its subtle 
influence was even then upon them, intoxicating 
their souls. With some of them its fumes, no doubt, 
passed away with the fumes of the liquor ; but with 
others — three or four of them — the false maxim had 
caught ; they went out into opening life armed with 
a rule which consisted of falsehood mostly, and a 
particle of truth. It took them to the broad way, 
and not only them, but others through them. That 
lying principle, which sounded so grand and true, 
spread in widening circles, ruining soul after soul ; 
it is still spreading, alas 1 and I see no end to the 
pernicious influence. 

There is another recollection burning as molten 
lead upon my soul. I had been visiting friends in 
the country, and was on the point of leaving to return 
to town. The carriage was at the door, and I down- 
stairs already, when I remembered having forgotten 
something in my room. I bounced up the stairs 
and came upon a little housemaid tidying the apart- 
ment. She was young and beautiful as Hebe ; 
barely eighteen she looked. What shall I say? 
Temptation was strong ; I took her into my arms 
and kissed her. She tore herself away, the flushes 
of shame in her face, crying: I am a poor girl, 
sir, but I am honest !’ * Poor, my child ?’ I said. 

‘ With a face and figure like yours one is never poor; 
you might buy the heart of a millionaire ! Beaut> 
is a wealth of capital if well laid out.’ 

They were the words of the moment — one of 
those silly speeches which fast men abound in. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


109 


The girl was silent, blushing still; but I continued: 

‘ And now, my fair one, you shall give me another 
kiss, of your own free will, to reward me for tht 
useful lesson I have taught you. I dare say we shall 
never meet again.’ 

She still resisted. But I was young and hand- 
some, and thoroughly versed in the arts of persuasion. 
I presently held her in my arms again, and she did 
kiss me. The girl was quite in my power. I knew 
it, but opportunity was not mine ; I heard the horses 
pawing, and there was the train to be caught. So I 
loosened my hold, and as though beauty were indeed 
the capital I had spoken of, bringing riches to the 
owner, I put a sovereign into her hand. 

I saw no particular harm in what I had done. 
Thousands in my place, no doubt, would have said 
and done as I did. But in truth I was guilty of an 
awful thing ! I had poisoned the very life-blood of 
the girl. Her innocence was gone ; corruption had 
taken root in her soul. My spirit somehow has a 
knowledge of her future career. She had been 
engaged to an honest working man ; but her 
beauty, if she married him, would not bear the 
interest she now coveted, so she broke with him. 
He had loved her, and hardly, if ever, got over the 
blow. She went her way putting out her capital, 
laying traps to the right and to the left ; but cleverly 
as she laid them, she after all was caught herself, falling 
a victim where she had hoped to conquer, and was 
flung aside again. She was ruined, but the horrible 
lesson I had left with her was nowise rendered harm- 
less ; on the contrary, she improved it all the more 
As a courtesan she continued her career, and soon 


I lO 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


there was none more knowing, none more dangerous, 
than she. One fool after another went the way to 
her house to his soul’s ruin, and her capital laid out 
bore interest vastly, being the fruit of that first 
sovereign I had given her ! But rich she grew 
not ; the money went as it came, squandered reck- 
lessly. And before she dreamt of it, the capital 
itself was gone ; she struggled awhile, sinking deeper 
and deeper, and died in utter misery. But even 
that is not all. The lesson I had taught her proved 
not only a poison to herself, but with it she poisoned 
others, teaching scores of girls the pernicious lie : 
Beauty is a capital ; lay it out ! lay it out ! 

Thus it went with her with whom in life I had 
but a moment’s intercourse, whose name even I 
never knew ! What shall I say then of many 
others ; what of Annie, against whom I sinned far 
more grievously ? Strange that the spirit knowledge, 
which tells me so much, is entirely at fault whenever 
I think of her. But it is a blessing ! What if she 
too were to rise before me crying : Thou didst it ! 
thou didst it ! 

The force of example — I repeat it — is terrible, 
terrible ! and the responsibility of all, therefore, is 
great with whom influence rests in a special way, as 
it does with those, for instance, to whom the young 
are taught to look. That is why there are so 
many here who had charge of children — parents, 
guardians, teachers, nurses innumerable. They go 
to hell first, of course they do ; but they are followed 
by many of those whom they should have taught 
the way of life. And not only are they followed by 
them, but by their children after them, generation 


I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Ill 


rising against generation in awful accusation. I 
arn one of the worst of those who dare not lift their 
head, so I may well speak in warning ! I know 
what awaits me. I am thinking of Martin. Poor 
boy, it was I who brought him up, feeding hinr upon 
evil example. I have made him what he is. But 
what has become of him, and what will become of 
; his children ? I had no family in life — alas, I may 

! have one in hell, larger than I care to see — the 

children of my iniquity ! But there is hope for 
Martin ; he is yet in life. May the Lord have mercy 
on him — on him and his ! 

How I loved him in spite of his waywardness ! 
Perhaps it was self-love after all ; perhaps I loved 
him only inasmuch as he seemed to reflect myself. 
Ye‘t there was power in that love, in spite of super- 
vening jealousy. He grew more handsome, more 
taking than even I had been, ousting me by degrees 
out of my every pride; but jealous though I felt, I yet 
loved him. And the time came when he was master. 
I remember well how one day I was humbled by 
the sudden consciousness of it. I had been specially 
careful of his bodily development, seeing to it myself; 
his mental ^raining I left to others. I taught him 
gymnastics and all sorts of manly exercises, in which 
I excelled — fencing, wrestling, and the like. He 
was tall and powerful, and exquisitely proportioned. 
Barely twenty, he resembled some athlete of anti- 
quity. We practised daily, and I found that he 
gained as steadily as I lost; there was a time at 
last when with difficulty I could hold my own. 
And then it came — I could never speak of it 
calmly — that he floored me, standing over me, a 


iia 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


very Hercules of strength. From that day I knew 
that he had the ascendency over me. It was natural, 
for I had passed the zenith — he was approaching it ; 
but it was mortifying, and I could not forgive it 
And yet, with strange inconsistency, I was proud of 
him, loving him all the more fondly. 

My grudge against him, however, took a more 
real turn when I found that he outdid me in the 
favour of woman as well. That was more than even 
my fondest love could stand. 

Will he join me here ? The beating of my heart 
seems to say yes ; for he belongs to me, and I am 
here. Then I shall find an answer to that burning 
question which filled my soul as I quitted life, and 
which burns with a fire of its own here amid many 
fires. But ought I to wish for an answer ? I have 
a frightful foreboding at times that the answer my 
soul is craving will overwhelm me with horror. But, 
nevertheless, and though it should be all horrors 
combined in one, I am hungering and thirsting for 
it, nor can 1 rest till 1 find it What is it he bad tc 
tell me ? 


LETTER IX 


How frightful is the deep stillness reigning in hell 
among these myriads of souls ! I thought at first I 
should get used to it ; but there is no getting used 
to it. It is stifling and oppressive. What a contrast 
with the multifarious hubbub of earth ! Life may 
, be ever so excited here, ever so restless, it is dead to 

i the ear. I do not mean to say that words passing 

I to and fro are devoid of sound, but it is unearthly, 

[ unclothed of its body, falling dead on the spot ; I 

I suspect that, like most things here, it is imaginary, 

: unreal. Probably the meaning of anything that is 

said passes to the hearer without the medium of 
I sound ; he seems to hear with outward ears, but that 
is illusion. * 

I Hell is filled with unruly souls. It is the hurly- 
‘ burly of existence they need, but with all their effort 
they can never create sound. If never before they 
longed for a dull repose they do so now, yet are 
keenly alive to its utter hopelessness. They will 
hunt for tumult to all eternity, never hearing the 
sound they crave : they also have their reward. 

As light increases, so does the uneasy expectation 


114 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


of my heart. I tremble for the he ar when the glory 
from the other side will flash across the gulf and 
strike my blinded eyes. I shall have to see it ! 
And Paradise, as seen from hell, must be a sight 
most dread — most terrible — piercing the heart. 
Yet I long for it — I groan for it — though the 
glimpse of bliss be fraught with exquisite torment ; 
I hunger for it — * Let me have it,’ I cry, * though it 
should kill my soul.* 

Was not there something in the vanished time 
that was called the Lord’s Prayer, beginning, ‘ Our 
Father,’ a well of blessing to those who opened their 
hearts to it? Surely I seem to remember, but 
vainly I try to call back the words ; they seem 
hovering about me as though I need but say, * Our 
Father,’ and all the rest must follow. I try and say 
so, but never get beyond ; I have sometimes repeated 
these two words ten, twenty times, but it is quite 
hopeless — they are empty and meaningless ; I have 
lost the prayer — it is all nothing to me. I just 
remember that there is a Father ; but He is not my 
Father, and I am not His child. Yet I cannot 
refrain from racking my spirit for the once blessed 
words ; surely they are somewhere — somewhere I 
My soul is thirsting, and there is not a drop of water 
to cool my tongue. 

I return to the horror of existence. It is a mercy 
that after all one can choose one’s society here ; I 
should die if I were obliged to know all tho vulgar 
rabble of common rufflans, thieves, murderers, card- 
sharpers, and the like. I have always been a gentle- 
man. Of course I am aware now that I am not one 
whit better than those that I call the rabble, — ^the only 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


"5 


difference consisting in a little outward finish, what 
we used to call culture on earth ; and to be sure 
how proud we were of it ! Our wickedness may be 
as great, if not greater than theirs ; but it is not 
so coarse, there is a certain refinement about it, 
which flatters our notions of superiority. I consider 
myself a gentleman, therefore, as I always did, and 
am very careful with whom I associate. The rabble 
I consists of the vulgar criminals and their belongings ; 

but hell’s upper ten thousand have never soiled their 
j hands with low wickedness. We ruined girls, but 
I kept it a secret ; we grew rich upon the spoils of 
others, and called it business ; we were proud, hard- 
hearted, and spoke of the claims of rank ; we may 
have been liars and cheats, but always wore kid- 
gloves and were careful as to our tailor — we were 
I gentlefolk, you see. The proverb ‘ birds of a feather ’ 

' is written up everywhere in hell, — we follow it out 

j naturally ; people here have an exquisitely developed 

I instinct that helps them to judge in a moment of 

j those they meet, aided — I should add — by the 

I transparency of clothes. It is of course not quite 

easy here to carry out such principles, still society 
manager /ery generally to keep itself to itself. We 
eschew /ulgarity and turn our back upon anything 
likely to shock our notions of good-breeding. 

I met a charming young woman the other day 
who was received in the best circles here. Her 
history was known, but it did not seem to shut her 
out from us. She had forsaken her widowed mother, 
nearly blind though she was, eloping with a handsome 
actor. She died suddenly, carried off in the height 
of passion, and very naturally found herself in helL 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


f i6 


A prey to the coid which we all experience^ she 
was afire with a ceaseless longing for her mother on 
the one hand, whom she never will meet again, and 
for her lover on the other hand, whom she awaited 
with ardent desire. She ought not to have wished for 
a reunion, since that meant dragging him to hell ; but 
her love being what it was, she lived and breathed 
in that cruel hope. She selfishly longed for him, 
saying they had sworn to live and die together. 
But he could not have been equally anxious ; at 
any rate he kept her waiting years upon years. 
And during all this time her infatuated soul beheld 
him as she had known him last, handsome, in the 
prime of life, and the darling of the people. At 
length he arrives — a decrepit man on crutches, 
blear-eyed, and a face that told his life. What a 
meeting ! — she starts back as from an apparition. 
Can that be the lover of her youth, for whom she 
sinned, for whom she suffered ! She loathes him, 
but she is driven to pursue him. Society here is 
well-bred, and shrinks from what ruffles its feelings. 
She was a charming creature, but we could no longer 
tolerate her. One after another we disowned her, 
and she disappeared with her former lover. 

Let me add that one of the greatest evils in the 
world is a superabundance of love. Who would 
believe that love unrestrained sends more souls to 
hell than almost anything I could name ? It is not 
the love which is pure and health-giving, for it is not 
fed by the Love Divine and Eternal. So much 
depends on what one loves and how one loves 1 

A woman arrived here some time ago, no longer 
young, but still beautiful, blue -eyed, fair-haired, and 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


I17 

we all thought her charming. She was amiability 
itself; we could not think what brought her to 
hell ; indeed there was no reason for it, but her un^ 
chastened love for her husband. It was quite touch- 
ing to hear how she had given up her life to him, loving 
him a great deal more than he really deserved. She 
idolised him, forgetting everything for him, even her 
God. That was just it ; she had given to her hus^ 
band the heart’s adoration which belongs to God 
alone. How could she have been happy in heaven ? 
But her love, touching as at first sight it would 
appear, was after all nothing but a peculiar develop- 
ment of selfishness, and that is why it dragged her 
to hell. 

And in hell she continues sick of love for her 
husband ; it was the one longing of her life, so it 
needs must be the all-absorbing torment of hell. 
And she had her desire, she saw him again ; he 
arrived one day — with a heart full of another passion. 
He had never been faithful to her. Even hell pities 
the reward that is given her. 

You have long ceased to doubt, I hope, that hell 
offers anything but horror. But there are moments, 
at rare intervals only, when all the thousand horrors 
within us seem congealed into one frightful sensation 
of stupor. Do not imagine it is a painless moment ; 
feeling is swallowed up in indescribable anguish, a 
peculiar horror, not known at other times. And 
then — it is always sudden — hell stands aghast, 
trembling with dread. All pursuit ceases ; every 
soul is left to itself, shuddering. Something is upon 
us — a spirit -deadening influence It is not seen, 
but we are, each and all, aware of it with indescrib* 


Ii8 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


able terror. We know what it is ; we stand tongue- 
tied and trembling. Satan has come to survey the 
souls in hell. Final power is not yet given him ; 
for they are not yet judged. But he has learned to 
wait — satisfied, meanwhile, that they are added to 
daily. They are his, he knows, though the time of 
carrying them off is delayed. He knows the doom 
is coming when the wicked, for ever separated from 
the good, are assigned their place on the left of the 
Son of Man, and that they will be his then for ever 
and for ever. 

How often in the young days of life I seemed 
full of promise to become good, but never reached 
the true aim of Christianity. The memories I have 
brought away of these half-strivings are fraught with 
bitterest regret, and yet they would move my tender- 
est tears, — if tears were left. It was Lily especially 
who in those days was the instrument of grace divine. 
From the first it was given her, that wondrous power 
over me. Ah ! say not it was all sinful that brought 
me to her feet ! No; there was something higher, far 
higher, giving her an influence over my soul — a holy 
influence. All children I believe have something of 
it ; but Lily was filled with that heavenly grace. 

In winter-time, after dinner, we would rest awhile 
in the dusk, the firelight casting slumbrous shadows 
about the room. My mother would doze away ; Lily 
and I sat dreaming. But how different were the 
spheres to which our thoughts would roam ! I could 
have spent hours watching Lily as I did ; she sitting 
on a low fender-stool, the light falling on her. I was 
in the darK, unnoticed by her, which added to my 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


119 

sense of enjoyment. She would fold her hands on 
her knees, as she loved to do in thoughtful moments. 
How beautiful she was, in that half-light especially 
— a little pale, but spiritualised. The red glow 
<vas reflected in her wonderful eyes, which shone 
marvellously. Her features seemed transfigured ; 
she would sigh at times or heave a deep breath ; I 
knew then that she was occupied in her mind. I 
' watched her, greedily delighting in her perfect beauty. 

If there is truth in what people say of magnetism 
I and sympathetic attraction, she must have felt my 
gaze. Who can tell ? She sometimes really appeared 
uneasy ; I saw from my corner how she would try 
to shake off some unconscious influence. I could 
scarcely refrain then from snatching her up and press- 
ing her to my heart. But I conquered the desire — it 
I would have broken the charm. 

But sometimes Lily would sit down by me, and 
! then we passed the twilight in pleasant talk ; she 
I never denied me her confidence. One evening I 
I asked her what she was thinking of in those quiet 
moments on the fender-stool. 

‘What I am thinking of?’ she repeated, with her 
gentle voice. ‘ Ah, Philip, thoughts will come to me 
full of longing, sometimes happy, sometimes sad. I 
fancy myself carried away at times right over the 
seas to another land ; even to other worlds my 
thoughts will rise — up, up — beyond the stars. I seem 
carri:;d away to Louisiana, that beautiful country, 
where everything is so different from here — richer, 
grander by far, and where winter is not known. By 
the great river I see a house with a shady veranda 
and a pillared hall ; trees of the south grow about it 


20 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


luxuriantly. Here I was born ; my earliest recollec- 
tions twine around it. Memory carries me now 
through the lofty rooms. I flit from one chamber 
to another ; my poor parents are nowhere. I roam 
through the garden, so rich in delight, through the 
cool groves by the river ; but I am a stranger every- 
where, — no one remembers the little girl. I see black 
men and stop to speak to them, but they only shake 
their head mournfully. 

‘ Sadly I quit my beautiful home — home no 
longer to me, and the spirit carries me back over the 
lonely sea. Restless I seem to wander, passing 
many lands, seeing many things, meeting with kind 
people everywhere — but one thing I find not. And 
then I rise, beyond the clouds, beyond moon and 
stars. I seem to lose myself — thoughts vanish. I 
am at rest in a beautiful garden. 

‘ I had believed nothing could be more beautiful 
than Louisiana, my own lovely home, but that garden 
is better still ; for it is the garden of God — it is 
Paradise. And here I find them at last — my own 
dear parents ; I knew I should find them again. 
And here there is rest for my soul — nothing left f 
long for. I have my father again, my mother again 
they tell me how happy they are, and how they 
love me.’ 

Lily’s eyes were shining as with the light of the 
Paradise she was speaking of ; she sighed, and then 
continued slowly : 

‘ I am happy, too, for a moment ; but then the 
servant comes in with the lamp, and with a sudden 
pain at the heart, I seem to be thrust down from 
heaven. I look about me bewildered, scarcely know 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


131 


ing where I am — I feel lonely and sad. Can you 
understand it, Philip?’ 

Of course I understood her ; they were foolish 
dreams, and would make her ill. These twilight 
roamings ought not to be indulged in. But I did 
not say so. 

One evening she asked me suddenly : * Philip, 
what makes people happy ? ’ 

Her question startled me, but I was not at a loss 
for an answer. 

* I suppose their own heart,* I said ; * good health, 
too, and a pleasant home, where nothing is wanting 
to make one comfortable ; a few kind people also to 
love one, I should say.* 

‘ Well, I think I have all that. Am I happy ?* 

‘ Are you not, sweetest Lily ?* I returned. 

‘ I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘ Something 
seems wanting. I cannot quite express it. . . . No 
one seems to need me in the world to make them 
happy — I am of no use to any one.* 

‘ You should not talk so, Lily ! Are you not 
mother’s delight, and my own ? I am sure we need 
you. And you are of great use too ! But why should 
a little girl like you be grieving about not being 
useful ? You have nothing to do as yet but be 
happy yourself, learn your lessons like a good 
child, and grow up as fast as you can into a nice 
little woman that will be a blessing to those who 
love her. But surely, Lily, yo i do not doubt 
that even now you make mothei happy, and me 
too?* 

‘ But you could do without me And there are 
so many who— 


122 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


‘ No, Lily ; I do not think we should like to do 
without you. One is always glad of having some 
one to love.* 

Lily shook her head. 

am nothing to you and her, Philip. She is 
your own mother, and you are her son. But what 
am I ? I do not even belong to you. You found 
me and were kind to me.’ 

*What you ar^, Lily? Why, if you are nothing 
else, you are my dear little friend, whom I would not 
lose for all the world.’ 

‘ A friend ? Is that something ?’ she said 
dreamily. 

‘Yes, a great deal,’ I said. ‘A friend like you 
is a loving little girl who is ready to give not only 
her whole heart, but just her own self to him who 
loves her ; she will smooth away his grief if he has 
any, and return his smiles. The little friend I want 
you to be is the greatest treasure to be found in 
life.’ 

She looked at me wonderingly. ‘ I do not under- 
stand you,’ she said. 

‘ Well, you need not understand now. The time 
will come when it will be all plain to you. But you 
might promise me one thing, even now — will you be 
my little friend ?’ 

She hesitated a moment ; then, lifting her won- 
drous eyes straight to mine, she said candidly : 

‘Yes, dear, I will. It is nice to be something V 

‘ You are my all, Lily, if only you knew.’ 

But from that moment a pleasant consciousness 
hovered between us. Often when I met her, or took 
leave to go to town, I whispered : ‘ Sweet little Lily 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


121 




i friend.’ And she smiled her own angel smile, saying: 

‘ Yes, dear, it is nice to be somebody’s friend.’ 

' Ah, I love the memory of those twilight hours 
when she sat by me, and I could stroke her silky 
hair or hold her soft little hand in mine I But even 
close to me she would sink away into her dreams of 
home and Paradise, and I felt something like jealousy 
I at having no part in these dreams. 

I One evening — how strange is the power of 
memory ! I remember every word, every look even 
— we had been talking awhile, and I asked her: 
‘ But tell me, do you care for me, really ?’ 

‘ How should I not, Philip ? I have neither 
' father nor mother ; no one cares for me but aunt 
and yourself Of course I must love you for it’ 

‘ I know, Lily. But I mean, could you love me 
I even more?’ 

‘ I think so,’ she said meditatively. 

' She was then about twelve. At that age words 
; fall from the lips easily. ' And Lily had a childlike 

' and wonderfully spontaneous manner of uttering her 
thoughts ; yet in conversation with her elders there 
1 was a marked difference between her and other 
I children. Her words showed that she thought 
deeply, and the confidence with which she spoke 
could not but impress one’s heart. 

‘ I think so,’ she repeated, and sat thoughtful. 

‘What could I do to make you love me even 
more ?’ 

‘ There is one thing you could do, Philip. I am 
an orphan child, having neither father nor mother. 
But I nave learned from the Word of God that of 
brothers and sisters I have many — many. I know 


1 


J24 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


it, but I do njt know them ; I cannot go in search of 
them. I am only a little girl who is a stranger to 
the world, and it is not much I can do. But you, 
Philip, you are a man ; you are clever and rich, and 
you go about among the people. Will you promise 
me one thing ? Whenever you meet any of my poor 
brothers and sisters who are in want, will you be 
good to them, pitying them for God’s sake and for 
my sake ? Or if you will be really kind, will you 
try and find them out and take me with you, that 
together we may comfort them and help them ? 
Will you promise me ? Say yes, and you shall be 
the very dearest friend I have.* 

I felt the tears rise to my eyes; I could not answer 
at once, but after awhile I said : 

‘ If I do as you wish me, Lily, will you be sure to 
love me always — always ?’ 

‘Oh yes, dear; I cannot tell you how much!’ 

‘Well, then, I promise' you faithfully that I will 
do it But cheer up now, my good, kind-hearted 
little sister ; you must not be always thinking of 
things that make you sad. There, look at me, and 
let me see how brightly you can smile.’ 

And she did look at me, and smiled as no doubt 
angels smile whose measure of happiness runneth over. 

Do you not see that Lily had power over me — 
that I was almost becoming good, guided by that 
little hand of hers ? If it was but miserable selfish- 
ness at first w/iich brought me under her spell, it 
could not lessen the fact that I felt and even yielded 
to the breath of the Spirit moving in that holy child- 
soul. The influence for good that may procee\i even 
from s little child on earth is very marvellous. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


115 


I divi begin to look about for Lily’s suffering 
brothers and sisters. It did not cost me any great 
effort to do deeds of charity, for I was disposed to 
be good-natured ; and for Lily’s sake I took even a 
pleasure now in doing kind things. 

Again, meeting in the dusk of the evening, I 
would tell her how I had succeeded here and there 
in making some poor creature happy. I described 
to her the misery in which I found this or that 
family, the way in which I assisted them ; I told 
her of their joy and gratitude. And she listened 
with radiant face. Sometimes I took her with me, 
and it was my delight on such occasions to let her 
have all the planning and giving. It was strange how 
her sympathy would always hit upon the right thing! 

But — alas that I must say it! — in reality I was 
far from being a new creature. Lily had power to 
touch my heart ; but the flesh was strong, and the 
world held me fast. My goodness, at most, was a 
mere playing at being good. 

When we separated, I going to South America, 
I continued for her sake to help the poor and 
suffering I fell in with. But my deeds of charity 
were no more than a kind of idol -worship of the 
memories I loved, of the hopes I revelled in to 
possess her more fully some day who was mine 
already. Besides, if I had not carried out her wishes, 
I could not have written her the letters I knew she 
looked for ; knowing, moreover, that she loved me 
afresh for every deed of kindness I could tell her of. 
It was deceiving her, — deceiving myself, perhaps, — 
but there was no deceiving the righteous Judge. 

I found Lily in tears one day. She sat in silence 


126 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


with folded hands, one big tear after another trickling 
down on a book before her. It was her Bible. 

‘What is it, my child?’ I cried. ‘Why are you 
troubled ?’ 

She looked at me with her dovelike eyes, the tears 
trembling in them. ‘ I am not troubled, dear,’ she said. 

‘ But you are crying.’ 

‘For joy — yes, for joy. Look what I found !’ 

Her finger pointed to her Bible, and bending over 
her, I read : 

‘ When my father and my mother forsake me, then 
the Lord will take me up.’ 

I did not know at once what to say. It touched 
me, but at the same time I rather grudged her 
needing her Bible for comfort, and missing her 
parents so much. She had mother and me, and I 
wanted her to be happy. But I could not tell her, 
so I said after a while : 

‘ Yes, that is beautiful, Lily, — ^just as though it 
were specially written for you. But brighten up 
now ; I cannot have you cry, not even for joy, as 
you say. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour, and 
then we will have a walk.’ 

When I returned an expression of quiet peace 
had settled on her face, not unusual with her ; but 
from that day the words, ‘The Lord will take me 
up ’ seemed continuously present in her heart. She 
did not hide it. I could not shake off those words 
all at once, but did so after a while. 


LETTER X. 

Amusement! That is one of the commcn needs 
nowadays ; the world requires to be amused ■ — rich 
and poor alike. I do not say that, in itself, this is 
altogether blameworthy ; it would be foolish to let 
the river of delight flow past, and never stoop to 
drink. But to make amusement the one question 
paramount when life is so serious, when neighbours 
are in trouble and the poor in want — that surely is 
wrong. And yet that seems just what the world 
has come to. ‘ How shall we amuse ourselves ?’ 
appears to be the great question nowadays, the 
solving of which, for thousands of men and women, 
seems to be the very object of living. They do not 
consider it necessary to be praying for daily bread, 
or return thanks when they have got it ; but they 
never forget to cry out for amusement. And even 
the poor, with whom daily bread is a question, 
whose young may be hungry, and their aged be 
buried by the parish, must needs be amused ! 

It was not so always. Fifty years ago the mass 
of the people were satisfied with doing their work and 
looking \ipon pleasure as a relaxation merely ; but 


128 


LETFERS FROM HELL. 


now amusement with many has come to be the thing 
to be worked and lived for. And acknowledging this 
to be a fact, history holds up an appalling precedent 
When ancient Rome made pleasure the aim of life, 
the nation was approaching its doom. How shall 
it be with the world ? I do not know when its 
end may be, but I know this — that those of her 
children who run recklessly after pleasure are on the 
broad way that leads to hell ; and the excess which 
is their sin on earth will be their punishment here. 
Is the world rich in places of amusement ? — be sure so 
is hell. We too have our gardens, our Tivoli — call 
it Vauxhall, or Crystal Palace, or Champs Elys^es, 
it matters not, the thing is here. And whatever 
is being invented on pleasure-hunting earth, we have 
it to perfection. Does the world flock by thousands 
to its amusements ? — hell does so by millions. All 
pleasures, all passions, run loose here in awful con- 
fusion, and helplessly you are whirled along. Yet 
no matter what excess there be of wanton gaiety, 
there broods over all that deathlike stillness — hell’s 
frightful atmosphere — which I have tried to describe 
before. Perhaps you remember the effect of sounds 
deadened by a muffling fog ; that may give you a 
faint idea of what I cannot otherwise bring home to 
you. If one succeeds at times in breaking away 
from this horrible pretence of pleasure, it leaves one 
panting and spirit-broken, sick of existence and long- 
ing for rest ; but despite the loathing one is immedi- 
ately after it again, forcing the senses to what never 
yields them a shadow of delight Amusement here; 
let me tell you, is a very lash of correction, driving 
ail thoughts of pleasure far, far away. Ah, how 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


29 


they long for work, those poor souls, to whom 
labour on earth was so hateful, or, at best, but a 
means toward enjoyment. How gladly they would 
even slave on a galley here, deeming the meanest 
work a blessing. But the night has come when no 
man can work. 

There is a memory in this realm of death of how 
the Son of God once descended to hell to preach to 
the spirits in prison, filling the space between the 
great deep and Paradise with the cry of His infinite 
love, and proclaiming liberty to the captives. Then 
hell for a time was light as day ; but most of those 
present hardened their hearts, and fell back into 
darkness. 

I felt a burning desire to meet some one who 
had heard the voice of the Son of God, but I own it 
was a foolish wish, since it could do me no good — 
all being vanity now and nothingness ; still, in spite 
of that knowledge, here one is always trying and 
longing for something. 

There are naturally many souls in hell who heard 
that wondrous preaching, but they are all lost ; and 
lost souls cannot help one to a ray of light. Had 
they but remembered a single word of the Saviour’s 
— laid it up in their hearts, i mean — they would 
not now be here. Some certainly pretend to re- 
collect this or that, but what they said in answer to 
my inquiry was cant and blasphemy in their mouths ; 
it gave me no comfort, and, despairingly, I turned 
from my desire. 

I lately ventured upon an expedition through 
some outlying districts ; do not be surprised at iwy 
9 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


I3<^ 

saying I ventured, for I assure you it needs courage 
here to get to know more than is absolutely thrust 
on your knowledge. Discovery is full of horror, even 
to him who has nothing to lose. 

Indeed, you must not ask me to describe to you 
all I saw and heard ; it would take me too far, and 
it could not possibly interest you to hear all I might 
say concerning hell’s inhabitants ; those crowds of 
thieves, murderers, deceivers, liars, misers, spend- 
thrifts, perjurers, forgers, hypocrites, seducers, and 
slanderers. But stop! — there are some I must tell 
you about. Look at that tribe of strutting turkeys 
in human guise I They are the self-conceited, a very 
refuse of hell ; they thought well of themselves once, 
but are a laughing-stock now. 

And these miserable women flapping their arms 
wildly, and going about cluck-clucking like so many 
hens distressed for their brood, spreading wings of 
pity, but vainly seeking for aught to be gathered In! 
— they are the wicked mothers, groaning for the 
children they neglected in sloth or selfishness. 

And those queer creatures fawning about so 
meanly, slobbering all whom they meet with sym- 
pathy, offering assistance right and left ! — they are 
the merciless ones. Their hearts were too hard 
formerly : they are too soft now, and no one here 
requires their mercy. 

A few other figures I may single out. 

I have told you of the great black river here 
which is not Lethe. I was sitting one day near its 
bank, thinking of the sad past and sadder future; 
the turbid waves rolled heavily by. 

Groans broke upon the silence about me. I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


131 


stArted and perceived a strange figure, strangely 
occupied. It was a man of commanding aspect, 
handsome even, but in most painful plight. He 
sat by the river washing his hands, which dripped 
with blood. But for all his washing the dread 
crimson would not leave his fingers ; as soon as he 
lifted them abcve the water, the red blood trickled 
down afresh. It was a pitiful sight. 

He seemed tu be aware of my presence, for he 
turned upon me suddenly, saying, ‘What is truth?’ 
I did not reply at once, feeling it to be a question 
that should not be answered lightly ; but, raising his 
voice, he repeated impatiently, ‘What is truth?’ 

‘ Well,’ I said, ‘ it is a truth, and a sad one, that 
it is too late now for us to be seeking the truth.’ 

This answer did not appear to satisfy him. He 
shook his head, turning away. And again he set to 
washing his hands. 

I endeavoured to draw him into conversation. I 
seemed suddenly to know that he was one of those 
doubly miserable souls who had seen the Son of 
Man face to face and heard Him speak, and I was 
most anxious to hear what he might have to tell 
me ; but there was no turning him from his frightful 
occupation. 

I left him after a while. Who he was I knew 
without the testimony of his purple -bordered toga 
and th'5 ring on his finger — Pontius Pilate I 

He shuns the city of the Jews, and spends his 
time by the river washing his hands. But of every 
passer-by he asks the question. What is truth? 
Whatever answer he receives he shakes his head : it 
is not general truths he wants to know about, but tlu 


132 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Truth — truth absolute, and that is not known here. 
And do you perceive the cutting contrast ? Pilate 
inquiring about truth, yet washing his hands in the 
river of falsehood ! 

I went my way through desert places — unculti- 
vated tracts, that is, but nowise unpeopled ; no spot in 
hell is uninhabited, however dismal and waste it may 
be. There are souls whom an inward necessity drives 
into the howling wilderness ; those, for instance, who 
in life worked out dark plots ending in great crimes. 
These places are congenial to them. 

There is one terrible figure one meets at times in 
the dreariest wastes — a man tall and powerful, half- 
naked, the skin of some animal being all his clothing. 
The hair hangs wildly about his temples; there is a 
furtive look in his eye, and his brow is gloomy. 
There is a mark upon his forehead, and he carries 
a club ; not that he seems to require it, for he is 
a fugitive always, in constant fear of being slain. 
Every one who meets him trembles, but he is afraid 
of the weakest and most helpless of creatures, fleeing 
them each and all for fear of his wretched life. 
Always alone, he seems nowhere and everywhere 
A cursed fugitive he was on earth — a cursed fugitive 
he is in hell, for the Lord has set His mark upon him, 
that every one should know Cain and not slay him. 

I hurried away, anxious to get rid of the terrible 
sight Here, then, I had found a soul that was more 
wretched than myself. But the thought was poor 
comfort ; I could not shake off the impression of the 
lying flattery with which they buried me. But I 
forget — I have not told you my first experience 
by that vile river As I neared it I was met — would 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


133 


you believe it — by an account of my own obsequies. 
It was sickening ! A miserable versifier, lately come 
hither it seems, was hawking about his latest pro- 
duction. I do not know that he really knew me, 
but he insisted on flourishing a paper in my face, 
and I could not help reading with my own eyes the 
flaring title, to this effect : 

‘ New and mournful ditty, in memory of Philip 
H., Esq., whose heirs could pay for the grandest 
funeral and the most flattering parson to escort 
him to heaven, but could not keep him out of hell. 
Leading sentiment — his Reverence’s own — “ We 
shall meet again !”’ 

A funeral ditty in honour of me . . . staring me 
in the face by the river of lies ! ... I bit my lips, 
for I needs must read it. 

It began with a panegyric on my many virtues, 
very few of which I really possessed ; it next broke 
out into a doleful lamentation about the loss society 
had sustained by my untimely death, and ended with 
a description of the blessed life I had entered upon 
to receive the reward of my deeds, joy and glory 
unspeakable, which henceforth were my blessed in- 
heritance ! Terrible irony ! 

I felt as though a hundred daggers had entered 
my soul. Sick at heart I crumpled up the wretched 
production and fled from the place. It was some 
time before I could get over the deep bitterness of 
this experience, and when in a measure I had con- 
quered it, that parson’s ‘ leading sentiment ’ remained 
as a drop of rankling poison. Thou fool ! — or hypo- 
crite — which is it ? As though a man had but to die 
to go straightway to bliss ! I will not enlarge upon 


*34 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the hopeful statement — you little dreamt of its pos- 
sible meaning when you said, ‘ We shall meet again !’ 

It was about this time that I first came across a 
king in this place. Pitiful sight ! It is scarcely 
possible to conceive a greater contrast between the 
once and the now — kingship on earth and kingship 
in hell ! 

Of all the abjects one meets with here, I do 
believe emperors, kings, and princes of every descrip- 
tion are the poorest. There are no empires and j 

kingdoms here, save indeed Satan’s, and nothing ’ 

deserving the appellation of government. What 
rules us is a kind of social instinct and the habits of 
life we brought with us from the world. So, you see, | 

kings and princes are nowise needed. Their rank j 

of course entitles them to respect, and as on earth j 

so here, one bows involuntarily to their exalted posi- ! 

tion ; but in truth they are too miserable to look for 
respect. It is with them as with the image of some 
castaway saint, the gilding of which has worn off, 
and whi'ch ends its days in the lumber-room, ignomin- 
iously forgotten. Their former greatness was merely 
conventional ; it was gilding, in fact, and no real I 
gold. It has worn off, and there is nothing left to ^ 
bespeak their majesty. The poor kings have no 
kingdom here to display their greatness, no armies 
that will fight and die at theii bidding, no millions 
to be squandered ; they have nothing left but the 
sad pretence of former grandeur. Their courtly state 
is represented by a few wretched sycophants who 
stick to them, not for love but for gain illusive of j 
course, and followirg former habit merely. I said | 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ns 

they are miserable , — weigJied down would be a more 
descriptive word, and literally true, for they nearly 
sink beneath the burden of their crowns. Do you 
wish to know the possible weight of a croivn ? I 
will meet you with another question : can you tell 
me how great a king’s responsibility may be on 
earth ? They weigh tons these crowms, believe me. 
The poor kings, propped up as they are by ministers 
and satellites, can scarcely more than crawl here, so 
heavy is their burden. 

Worse off than any are those potentates whose 
names on earth boasted of the addition ‘the Great 
alas, those great ones are peculiarly small here, and 
those five letters add an enormous weight to their 
crowns ! 

Of truly great sovereigns, of course none arrive 
here, and those others whom the world called Great 
received that appellation merely because they were 
either great destroyers of human life, slaughtering 
the people by thousands for their own miserable 
renown, or perhaps because they outdid all other 
men and princes in that peculiar knavery which goes 
by the name of state -craft Some few also may 
have come by their distinction quite by chance ; per- 
haps they had clever ministers working for their 
glory. But these sometimes are the most conceited 
of all crown-bearers ; nothing is left for them but to 
go to hell when they have done. 

What a gain it would have been for those poor 
potentates if, instead of striving for the appellation 
‘the Great,’ they had been content tD be called ‘the 
Good ’ or ‘ the Beloved ’ ! Charity then, with them 
also, might have covered a multitude of sins. Now 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ij6 

nothing is left but the wailing and gnashing of 
teeth. 

You never hear them speak ; sighing and groan- 
ing seems to be their one means of intercourse. But 
no one cares to listen ; indeed they are scarcely fit 
for society. The knowledge of this makes them 
shy and retiring ; one hardly ever meets them ; and 
if they do venture abroad, they are at once set upon 
as a hawk by innumerable sparrows — persecuted 
by all who suffered through them in life, as many as 
half a nation sometimes. 

How enviable might have been their days on 
earth ! Blessed beyond their fellows, all was theirs 
to make themselves and others happy ; but ambition 
prevented them from seeing that their crown might — 
ay, should — be a well of blessing for the people. They 
were always speaking of their right divine, calling 
themselves kings by the grace of God ; they forgot 
that it would have been far better to own themselves 
poor sinners through the grace of God than kings by 
right divine, and by that right be cast into hell. 

I spoke of destroyers of human life, but one need 
not be a king or emperor for that ; some of the 
mcsi ruthless slaughterers of humanity the world 
has known were only generals, admirals, marshals, 
and the like. 

These also continue their career in hell — in vain 
endeavour. There are plenty here to flock to 
their standards — all those, namely, who on earth 
were forgetful of the peace and goodwill which the 
God of love proclaimed to mankind. They meet 
here, hundreds of thousands of them, and, like so 
many grinning skeletons, at once prepare for battla 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


137 


Vainest show ! Their artillery produces mere smoke. 
The spectre phalanx charges: one expects a great on- 
slaught, but it is nothing ; they merely change sides, 
as it were, and begin the battle afresh. They are un- 
able to shed blood now, but they are for ever spend- 
ing their soul’s energy in miserable bloodthirstiness. 

I thought of the warriors of Walhalla — foolish 
comparison ! for there is nothing in common between 
the heroes there and the would-be heroes here. The 
warriors of Walhalla are said to be resplendent with 
strength and glory, living not only a real but a per- 
fect life ; whereas their wretched semblances here 
are only fit to move laughter and pity. 

You know that we are always suffering thirst — an 
agonising, burning thirst — ever longing for a drop 
of water to cool the tongue. No one, one would 
imagine, would willingly come to try and slake his 
thirst with the stagnant water of the horrible river ; 
nevertheless there are some who do try it, quite 
secretly though, as if that could be kept a secret ! 
For their whole body swells and is puffed out with 
the slimy falsehood, which, breaking through their 
every pore, turns them into positive lepers of lying. 
Having drunk once they always drink again, but 
their thirst is never quenched. 

As I am thinking of ending this letter, the 
shadow of a saying crosses my memory, that of good 
things there are always three. I forget which of 
earth’s tongues has moulded this into a proverb, 
but something more than a proverb often troubles 
me now : I remember that I used to be taught 
to believe in the Trinity in Unity, but I never get 


'38 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


beyond the two now — I know something of a Father, 
and something of a Saviour ; but was not there 
a third to help one to say * our Father ’ and ‘ my 
Saviour * ? Alas the idea is a blank now, leaving a 
shadow to haunt me ! 

There are other three I am vainly trying to recall 
to my heart — faith, hope, and charity. I know 
nothing of faith now, and nothing of hope. I might 
have known charity, and I once believed I knew 
love : but now, alas, I know only what it might, 
what it should have been ? 

Oh that I could warn you who still walk in 
hope ! Love is no light thing, but the deepest out- 
come of the soul. Had I known it truly, faith and 
hope now would stand by my side. 

Be warned my brothers, my sisters ! My heart 
yearns for you ; it yearns for thee, my silent friend, 
who never with a word even hast answered any of 
these letters ; for thee, mother, who never under- 
stoodst my deepest need ; for thee, Martin, who in 
just retribution art as the lash now adding torment 
to torment. I love thee still, — what is it thou 
wouldst have told me ? My heart is yearning, my 
brothers, my sisters ; but vain, vain, is the longing ; 
it leav^ me in hell I 


LETTER Xr. 


Would you believe it — not only my sins, but even 
the ‘ good deeds ’ of my life come back to me in 
torment! I can but add, it is very natural I For 
even our best actions are full of blemish. Every one 
of them leaves a sting behind, and if it did not prick 
conscience then, it has power to enter the soul now, 
wounding it deeply. 

There was a clerk in our counting-house, a young 
man, in whom I was interested. I trusted him 
entirely ; he filled a responsible position, acting as 
cashier. Various little things coming under my 
notice first caused me to doubt his honesty. I 
watched him, and discovered that he had contracted 
a habit of gambling. Chance offered me an oppor- 
tunity of taking him in the act. 

He frequented a low gaming-house ; I had been 
directed to the place. The adventure was not with- 
out risk to myself, but that was nothing to me. 
It was a wintry evening, dark and blustering, 
when, wrapped in an ordinary overcoat, I approached 
the apparently uninhabited house. In answer to a 
peculiar kncck, however, the. door was opened, and 


140 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


having passed a low dark passage, I entered a well- 
lit room. I found a company of gamblers assembled, 
as numerous as varied, evidently enjoying them- 
selves though the place reeked with the fumes of 
tobacco and gin. Several tables were going, one 
of them was kept by my young scapegrace, who 
apparently enjoyed his dignity of banker. Acting 
on a sudden impulse, I faced him and staked a 
small sum. 

The sudden sight of me had a terrible effect on 
him. He grew ashy, and the cards fell from his 
hand. Having regained some self-command, he 
seemed about to rise, either to rush from the place 
or sink down at my feet. But a look from me was 
sufficient to rivet him to his seat. One of those 
present, perceiving his confusion, handed him a glass 
of port ; he seized it eagerly and drained it. His 
pallor yielded to a flush ; he looked me in the face. 
But coldly I disowned him — standing before him as 
a stranger merely, who desired the continuation of 
the game. So did the rest of the company. None 
of them suspected the peculiar relation between 
myself and the unfortunate croupier. I was deter- 
mined the rascal should suffer ; I compelled him 
to play. With trembling hands, scarcely knowing 
what he did, he dealt the cards, gave and received 
cash. The game went on, and as chance would 
have it, the youngster had all the luck. But I could 
abide a turn of the tide ; I knew it would come, and 
presently I began to force the game. I could afford 
to play higher than any of them probably had ever 
done before. The excitement grew to intensity ; 
with the croupier it appeared simply maddening; 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


141 


his eyes started from his head. Another stake, and 
I had broken the bank ! 

With a yell of despair the unhappy youth sprang 
to his feet, and crying, ‘All is lost!’ was about 
to rush past me and break from the place. ‘ Not 
all!’ I said under my breath, seizing hold of his 
arm ; ‘ more still might be lost. Stop a minute ; we 
leave this house together ! ’ 

He was obliged to take his hat and coat and 
follow me. The company stared of course, but all 
was done so quietly that none felt justified in 
demanding an explanation. 

I took him with me, walking by my side and 
trembling visibly. Not a word was spoken till we 
entered the library of my house. There I con- 
fronted him, and did not spare him. He who had 
been trusted beyond his age — trusted entirely — a 
gambler and a thief! 

He stood before me crushed and overwhelmed 
with shame. He ceased praying for mercy for him- 
self, but entreated me to spare his widowed mother, 
whose only stay he was. 

I did not relent so easily, although, considering 
that he had had a lesson, I determined to pardon 
him ; but I was also determined that he should 
remember that night as long as he lived. 

In agony he lay at my feet when I promised 
mer':y at last, saying I would keep the matter to 
myself, and allow him the opportunity of making up 
for his wrong ; he might do so, and thank me for 
no ruining his prospects. 

He prepared to take his leave, and staggered to 
the door, scarcely able te stand on his feet. It had 


42 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


been too much for him. I saw I coulJ not let lim 
go, or his miserable secret would at once bee Dme 
kno\^n to his mother. I rang for my valet, ard 
ordered him to give the young man a bed in ray 
house. 

The following morning found him in delirium , 
brain fever supervened. I thought of the poor widow, 
and how anxious he had been she should not know. 
I resolved to keep his secret ; the servant, I knew, 
could be trusted. So I wrote to his mother that 1 
had been obliged to send him away on business 
suddenly ; it would be a several weeks’ absence — 
meanwhile she might be at rest about him. 

Thus his fate, next to God, was left with me 
entirely. He was seriously ill ; I had him nursed 
conscientiously, dividing nearly all my time between 
him and his mother. I really acted as a brother by 
him, as a son by her. When recovery had set in 
and he knew me again, I surrounded him with kind- 
ness, doing my utmost to bring him back to health 
and self-respect. 

Some six weeks elapsed before he could go back 
to his mother. She was told he had been ill on 
his journey. On a journey indeed he had been, 
returning from the very gates of death. His mother 
never learned the true cause of his absence. I placed 
him in another branch of the business ; he rose 
by degrees, and I ever found him a faithful 
servant. 

Now to the point. You think perhaps that 1 
had every reason for being thoroughly satisfied with 
myself for once. I should have thought so at the 
time 1 But here, where the scales fall from one’s 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


M3 


eyes, wheri everything appears in uncompromising 
nakedness, one learns to judge differently. 

There was no wrong in catching the bird by the 
wing as I did, and holding him tight till he dropped, 
thoroughly frightened. I had saved him from his 
sin But looking back now I see that pride and 
self-consciousness guided my hand. Vanity was 
flattered by the moral ascendency I had over the 
youth ; a look of mine had sufficed to force him to 
continue awhile in his wicked course, and then I 
could have staked my soul that he would not again 
touch a card to his dying day. I knew it, I mean, 
even at the moment, and felt elated by the know- 
ledge. 

My subsequent kindness to him, I fear, sprang 
from a feeling that I had been hard on him. I had 
taken a cruel delight in his utter humiliation. What 
was left then, I ask, to make the deed a good one ? 
Judge for yourself, my friend ! Humiliation is for 
me now — I feel it deeply whenever I think of his 
contrition and suffering. 

That night, in fact, left her traces on his life. 
The brightness was wiped out of it. He had been 
a light-hearted youth ; he was a sad-browed man. 
A shy, almost timorous look, witnessed to the 
memory of that occurrence, although it remained a 
secret between him and me. 

You see, then, that even our so-called good deeds 
may weigh on our souls : is it not terrible ? But 
how little do they deserve to be called good, since 
few of them, I fear me, if thoroughly examined, 
will stand the test ! Not that I would deny there 
being such things as good works ; though, if viewed 


144 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


aright, what are they but the mere doing of ouf 
duty ? How indeed could they be more, if we have 
the means and power of doing them I 

Was not there something we used to call the 
articles of belief? I have a faint recollection. Did 
they not refer to the mystery of the Trinity, and 
were they not, like the Lord’s Prayer, a support to 
Christian souls? 

I have tried to remember them, driving the brain 
to the verge of madness ; but I have given it up 
now. What would be the use if I could remember, 
if I could repeat those articles, and the whole of the 
catechism besides ? It would be words — words only, 
as empty and hollow as everything about me. It 
is faith only which could give them their true mean- 
ing. Faith ? — what is faith ? I know about it. I 
know that its object is the Son of God. The very 
devils know as much as that I know that He is the 
Saviour. But how He saves, and how a lost soul can 
come to have part in Him, woe is me, I cannot tell. 

I feel about faith as I do about repentance. I 
think if I could repent but for one short moment — 
repent truly — salvation would be mine. But vain is 
the trying, I cannot — cannot repent. At times I feel 
as if I were very near that blessed experience, as if 
my being would dissolve in tears, — ah vainest de- 
ception ! ‘ Oh for a tear — a single tear !’ I keep 

sighing, ‘ Father of mercy,’ — but what boots the 
prayer of anguish if barren of faith? — ‘Father of 
mercy, oh grant me a tear !’ 

Time passes. Nay, this is nonsense, since there 
is no time here. Something, however, appears t<? 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


145 


pass ; I infer that from the increasing glimmer of 
light The blissful moment seems to be approaching 
when the glory of Paradise will swallow up the night 
cf hell. But I .<;peak of A^hat I have not seen. It 
may be an awful moment sublime rather than blessed, 
and it may be in the distance of unmeasured ages. . . . 

Broad is the way which leads to destruction ; but 
how broad is not known till you see it from hell, 

Men find it a pleasant road ; they go along 
dancing and singing, as it were, enjoying the moment, 
and never asking whether they give it to God or to 
the devil. They think of the future only as far as 
it may concern some pleasure they are anticipating, 
some ball or play perhaps, or even the new clothes 
they are going to wear. They call the hour of 
waiting an eternity, and know not the awful import 
of the word. ‘ We love to live,’ they say ; but death 
holds them in his embrace. Holbein’s well-known 
‘ Dance of Death ’ is more than a picture, I assure 
} ou. They dance, they make love, they chatter, they 
eat and sleep through life. A sudden wrench — and 
lo, they wake in hell. 

There are others who grovel along that road. 
One would imagine them to find it irksome, but by 
no means. The mole in the ground is as satisfied 
in his way as the bird in the air. There are human 
noles. ‘We lead steady lives,’ they say, and grovel 
in the dust. ‘ We have eyes to see,’ — of course they 
have ; it is but a myth which asserts that moles are 
blind. They have an eye, I assure you, for the 
smallest advantage they can pick up in their earthly 
course. Not that they look for the small gains 
merely ; it is the great ones they like, and burrow 
10 


146 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


for them assiduously. That is what they use theif 
eyes for — to peer about in the dust ; they never 
direct them heavenward. They do not seem aware 
even of the starry sky above the clods of eartl? 
riiej spend their lives in trying to break those c1oc‘j» 
(or something that may be within ; and, grovelling 
along, they sooner or later come upon a hole in the 
ground. They did not look for it, and tumble in 
unawares. Death has swallowed them up ; and, 
recovering from the fall, they find themselves in hell 

It is truly to be marvelled at ! All men knov 
that their portion is to die, but few of them ever 
think of death, and fewer still prepare themselves for 
dying. Death comes to most men as an unexpected 
visitor who will take no denial, though one never 
made ready for him. What is there left for them 
but a terrible waking in hell ! 

It is so with most ; and more marvellous still, as 
I have said already, one finds people here one would 
never have dared to look for. They had gained the 
veneration and love of the world, even of good people 
in the world ; the tearful prayers of their friends 
went to heaven, mourning their death. But they had 
not gone to heaven ; they are in hell ; for God judges 
not with the eyes of men. They may have been 
excellent people and possessed of many a virtue, but 
they lacked one thing which alone avails in the end ; 
they had not the heart of faith which yields itself 
to God entirely. They may have gained the whole 
world, but they lost their own soul. 

And again, there are others one most certainly 
expected here who have never arrived. Their evil 
reputation, their works went before them, announcing 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


147 


them, as it were ; but they are looked for in vain 
There is only one way of accounting for this. Great 
sinners though they were, iniquitous and full of pollu- 
tion, they must yet have come to that godly sorrow 
which worketh repentance to salvation. Perhaps at 
the very last the Saviour stood up between them 
and hell, where their place seemed prepared for a 
certainty. 

You who have loved your dead and grieve for 
them tenderly — with trembling hearts and tearful 
voice I hear you ask : ‘ May we not go on loving 
them, helping them perhaps with our true heart’s 
prayers ?’ 

I know not Yet pray — pray with all your soul 
md without ceasing. One thing I am certain of, 
that the prayer of love is never vain ; the tears of 
(ove can never be lost ! For God is love, and His 
Son is the fulfilment of that love to all eternity. 

Looking backward and looking forward to me is 
fraught with equal pain. I see nothing before me 
but an endless existence which knows not of hope, 
while all behind me is wrapt in the wild regret of a 
life that is lost. 

Hell yields a terrible knowledge — how blessedly 
fruitful life might have been ! Happy ye are whose 
life is still in your hands. While there is life there 
is hope — never was there a truer word. Do not, I 
beseech you, yield to the pernicious delusion that 
you have lost your opportunity — that it is too late 1 
That lie has ruined more souls than all earth’s 
wickedness combined. It is not too late ! And if 
death awaits you to-morrow, it is not too late ! Your 
life, though even now it be running out its last grains 




LETTER:) FROM HELL. 


of sand, may yet bring forth fruit — the blessed fruit 
of peace, of joy unspeakable ; the crown of life may 
yet be yours. 

If you would but repent ! Ah ! turn, turn from 
your ways, and seek for peace where it is to be found ! 

Could I but let you see things as I see them, 
you would not despair ! Wretched, undone, and lost 
though you feel yourselves, you need not be hopeless. 
Despair has no right on earth — its true realm, alas, 
is here ! And here only it is ever too late. Do 
you not know that your life on earth is but a part, 
an infinitesimally small part of the existence given 
to you, and that little is lost even if all earthly 
hopes have failed ? I need not have said all ; for 
no man is left so entirely desolate. Waste and 
ruined though life may appear to you, there is many 
a spot left where the waters of content may spring — 
where joy even for you may be found to be growing, 
if you could but trust ! And the world is not all. 
Behold the stars, they are more than you could 
number. If the world indeed were lost and earthly 
life a failure, what is it ? There are other worlds 
awaiting you, a better life is at hand. Look up, I say, 
and despair not ! It is a lie if any one tells you it 
is too late. It is not too late. You may yet be 
fully satisfied. This is a truth as unshakable as 
the existence of God Himself. Repent thee^ O 
man ! O woman ! and turn from thy ways ; turn to 
Him who can save thee, who will save thee ! How- 
ever late it be, there is yet time for thee to begin a 
new life. But delay not — ah delay not to enter 
upon the happy road that may lead thee from star 
to star, even into realms of joy eternal. Delay not^ 


LETTFRS FROM HELL. 


149 


I say ; for if death surprise thee on the road of 
despair with sins unforgiven, heaven ar.J all its stars 
will fade away in the night that evermore must en- 
wrap thy soul. 

Again I say, it is not too late. Whatever be 
lostj, one thing is yet to be saved — thy hungering 
soul, her peace, and the life to come. 

Hast thou lost money and riches? — Thy soul is 
worth immeasurably more. 

Is thy past a failure, undoing even thy future? 
— Behold eternity, and work for that. 

Wast thou deceived in love? — Love will save 
thee at the last. 

Is thy life degraded ? — Look upon Life exalted 
on the Cross. 

Has the world not satisfied thee ? — There is 
heaven ; try it ! 

Have earth’s joys proved faithless ? — There is an 
heritage to come ! 

How little then is lost, even if it be thy all, and 
how much there remains to be gained ? Take heart, 
I say, for verily it is not too late ! There is yet time 
to begin a new, a holy, happy, and even joyful life ! 

I have seen her ! It was as though death again 
had clutched me. Shaken to the depth of my soul, I 
fell *0 the ground at the dread aspect, stricken with 
lein ;rse. I saw her — her against whom I have 
sinned so terribly that my own heart and conscience 
ever stand up to accuse me. 

I have never had courage to mention it to you, 
my once truest friend ; but I have always had a 
frightful foreboding that, sooner or later, I should 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


150 


meet Annie in hell, whose life and soul I murdered. 
She is here, and I have seen her ! 

I was strolling about with an old acquaintance. 
‘Do you know Undine?’ he said suddenly. ‘No,’ 
I replied. ‘ There she is,’ he continued, pointing 
towards a pond at some little distance. 

And I saw a youthful figure, dressed in the airiest 
of garments, and with dishevelled hair. Her light 
robe seemed to cling to her figure and to be dripping 
with water. She was trying, now to wring her wet 
clothes, now the heavy masses of her hair. She 
looked up. I stood trembling. It was Annie ! 

Annie indeed ! The same lovely features, the 
same enchanting figure, and yet how changed — how 
terribly changed ! The same features, but the light 
was gone. Womanhood had fled, the merely animal 
had triumphed. Passion, vice, and despair vied for 
the mastery. She looked much older, though the 
space between her ruin and her death comprised, I 
should say, a few years only. I seemed to have a 
knowledge that despair had driven her to a watery 
grave. 

I stood rooted to the ground with horror, as a 
murderer at the sudden sight of the gallows. She was 
my work, degraded and lost, yet lovely once and pure ! 

There she sat, wringing her garments and the 
tresses of her hair — and wringing her hands in hope- 
less agony ; sigh upon sigh breaking as from a heart 
overwhelmed with shame. 

I thought of escaping, feeling as though a possible 
word from her must be a dagger to kill me. But I 
know not what power drove me towards her. Was 
I going to throw myself at her feet ? 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


151 


Now only she perceived me. Darting up, she 
gave me one look of terror and loathing, and hurried 
away. It was impossible for me to reach her. The 
power of abhorrence alone was sufficient to make her 
keep me at a distance. And presently she escaped 
from my sight altogether, lost in a troup of bewildered 
spirits just arriving from the shores of death. 

I turned and hed, followed by the Furie& 


LETTER XIL 


i HAVI been to the post-office. That institution alsc 
is represented here, as I found out quite recently. 
Truly nothing is wanting in this place except all 
that one needs in order to live and to hope. 

I had gone to inquire for letters. There is some- 
thing very curious about this post-office of ours. You 
have heard of what befell Uriah. There have always 
been people who, betraying their neighbour, have 
done so by writing. But the invention is older even 
than that notorious letter, originating, no doubt, with 
the father of lies in the first place. It was he who 
inspired that piece of treachery, just as he inspired 
Judas’ kiss. Treason by writing is known all over 
the world now. There are those who delight in the 
cleverness of such a letter, quite priding themselves 
«!)n the art of taking in their fellows. 

Be it known, then, that every such letter goes 
to hell at the expense of the writer, to be called 
for sooner or later — not by the person to whom it 
is addressed, but by the sender ; some few cases 
excepted — King David’s to begin with — where 
true repentance cancels the writing. That is the 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


153 


meaning of our post-office, and I assure you it is 
most humiliating to be seen there ; for even here 
one perceives the meanness of such correspondence, 
the writer’s punishment consisting in having to read 
it over and over again to his lasting confusion. 

I somehow could not rest till I had been to inquire 
for letters ; to my great relief there were none for 
me ! Bad as I was, I had after all never been a 
downright Judas, and I felt ready to give thanks for 
that assurance. I had no real satisfaction in the 
feeling ; still, for a moment, it seemed I had. 

But such letters are not all : there are spurious 
documents and false signatures here more than can 
be counted. Let men beware how they put pen to 
paper ; writing has a terrible power of clinging to 
the soul. None but God Himself can blot it out 

I never knew more than two people capable of 
teaching me patience — my mother and Lily — Lily’s 
influence over me being the stronger by far. My 
mother’s props were propriety and duty ; but Lily 
moved me by that wonderful goodness of hers, that 
sunny warmth that emanated from her loving heart 
In the exuberance of masculine strength I often 
inclined to be violent and overbearing, ill brooking 
opposition and delighting in conquering obstacles, 
yielding to the absolutely impossible only with 
chn hed fists: submissiveness did not grace my 
nature. That indomitable spirit of mine would break 
out at times on our memorable journey to the south; 
but on that journey, also, Lily’s power over me was 
fully apparent. I was learning from her daily without 
knowing it, nor did she know it, unconscious as sho 


‘54 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


was of her soul’s beauty : patience was one of the 
many good things to which she led me. 

We had reached Lucerne, intending to go over 
the St. Gothard to Italy. I wanted Lily to have 
the full enjoyment of crossing the Alps, there being 
to my mind nothing more beautiful than the sudden 
transition from the austere north to the genial life- 
expanding south ; and passing by the Gothard, or 
the Splligen, or the Simplon, one can gather the 
fulness of all Italy into one day as it were. 

The weather at Lucerne was most unfavourable, 
and kept us waiting full eight days. I chafed. Mo) n- 
ing after morning Lily and I went to the great 
bridge to have a look at the sky ; but little sky we 
saw ; everything was mist and spray, hiding all 
prospect of lake or mountain -top. My vexation 
was boundless ; day after day the same miserable 
lookout ! I thought them wretched, those excursions 
after breakfast, but their memory is sweet. Lily was 
leading me up and down that queer old bridge — a 
wild animal in chains. It needed but the pisssure 
of her soft little hand and my grumblings were 
silenced. 

How clever she was — how ingenious even — in 
amusing me. Travelled folk will remember that old- 
fashioned structure spanning the Reuss ; it is covered, 
and the spaces between the woodwork that supports 
the roof are filled with antique paintings — both 
naively conceived and grotesquely executed. She 
would suddenly stop now in front of this picture, 
now in front of that, her delightful remarks again 
and again restoring my good humour. 

The weatlier cleared at last, tc our great satis- 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


155 


faction. We had gone to the bridge earlier than 
usual, when suddenly the mists parted, revealing the 
dazzling mirror from shore to shore ; and, rolling 
upward, the curtain disclosed the mountain scenery, 
so lovely, so grand. We stood, spellbound, watching 
the transformation : the splendid expanse of water, 
from which the country rises, height upon height, 
mountain upon mountain, the great Alps behind 
them lifting their virgin whiteness in the radiant 
air. 

The following morning, then, we started at sun- 
rise, crossing the lake and thinking hopefully of the 
Gothard. The boatmen doubted the weather, but 
we hoped for good fortune, enjoying the present, 
which had steeped all nature in floods of light. How 
beautiful it is, how surpassingly beautiful, that alpine 
scenery, lifting you into high regions, still and pure ! 
The first alpine-rose nearly cost me my life — it 
was for Lily. We drove and walked alternately. 
It was a day the memory of which sank into the 
soul. As the sun went down we passed through the 
wild dark glens that lead to the valley of Ursern, 
the restful beauty of which, so simple yet sublime, 
opens out before you as though earth glorified were 
a fact already. We passed the night in the little 
town of Andermatt. The following morning — what 
a change ! The boat-people had been right : snow 
covered the ground ; a storm swept the valley. 

My impatience was by this fresh delay stung to 
fienzy One day passed — another — a third; we con- 
tinued weather-bound. To take it quietly was im- 
possible to me. I set out upon several expeditions 
by myself to explore the neighbourhood, fraught with 


156 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


danger to life and limb though they were. Lily, 
fearful lest anything should befall me, entreated me 
to abstain, and to please her I yielded. How sweetly 
she set herself to reward me! What none could 
have done, she did, making the time pass pleasantly, 
and teaching me patience. She took me about the 
little town visiting the people. The houses and 
cottages seemed all open to her, and the simple folk 
received her like an old friend. 

Now it had an interest of its own, no doubt, to 
become acquainted with the home-life of this alpine 
retreat, but, after all, Lily was the centre of all I saw 
and heard. And how should it have been otherwise, 
when she was as a sunbeam gliding from house to 
house, unutterably lovely in her unconscious sym- 
pathy, calling up smiles wherever she went, and 
leaving a blessing behind her I I am sure the people 
thought so, feeling the better for having seen her. 
Poverty brightened on beholding her, and suffering 
lessened ; she seemed welcome everywhere ; it was 
marvellous. An ordinary observer would have said, 
‘ Yes, such is the power of youth and beauty.’ But 
a deeper fascination went out from her, since her’s 
were higher graces, known to God. 

The involuntary sojourn against all expectation 
yielded its own gain, enriching life as with an idyl 
brought home to our minds in that alpine solitude. 

Not that I ceased fretting at the delay. One 
evening I asked Lily : ‘ How can you make yourself 
sc contentedly glad in this wretched place, when we 
might be spending days of delight beyond ?’ 

‘ Oh,’ she said, ‘ it is not difficult Even though 
we are kept here against our will, and the place 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


157 


seems dull and desolate with the gray mists about 
us, yet I know that there is beauty awaiting us on 
the other side of the mountain ; a few days only, a 
few hours even, and we may be there.* 

She was growing thoughtful. ‘ Philip,’ she con- 
tinued presently, * does it not remind you of life itself? 
The world often seems cold and dreary, not yielding 
the sunny warmth one craves. But then we do know 
that Paradise is beyond, — the true home prepared 
for us in the house of our heavenly Father. As yet 
there is a mountain between us and the place beyond, 
the mount of crucifixion, of denying ourselves ; it is 
for us to pass it, and then we do reach home, where 
earth’s troubles are all left behind. . . 

And before long we did find ourselves on the 
other side, resting from the journey in a charming 
villa on the bank of Lago Maggiore. Lily and I 
were sitting in a pillared hall, listening to the soft 
cadence of the waters, and enjoying an indescribably 
enchanting view of the island-dotted lake. Mountains 
framed the picture beyond, rising higher and higher, 
earth vanishing into sky — the most distant heights 
scarcely to be distinguished from the white clouds on 
the sunny horizon. 

From seeming mid -winter we had reached the 
perfection of a genial clime. Lily’s hands twined 
white roses and myrtles which she had gathered 
about the place. She played with the flowers, now 
wreathing them, now unwreathing them. There was 
a bridal purity about those children of the south, and 
Lily was herself the sweetest of blossoms. My heart 
burned ; I longed to seize the hands that held the 
flowers, and cover the n with kisses, but a holy power 


I5S 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


forbade me. Ever and again I felt as though some 
angel were standing between Lily and myself. 

‘What are you thinking of?' I asked, my voice 
betraying my emotion. 

‘ I ?’ she said gently, lifting her soft gaze, and my 
heart was stilled. ‘ I am thinking of that poor dark 
mountain valley we left behind. The memory of it 
seems to enhance the beauty we now enjoy, deepen- 
ing its riches and our sense of them. And, feeling 
thus, I cannot but bless the time spent on the other 
side of the dividing mountain, though it seen.td 
gloomy and cold, and the longing was great. 

‘ Don’t you think, Philip, that one day when we 
have reached heaven, we shall be looking back with 
similar feelings upon the troubled times we may have 
spent on earth ? I think we shall, and that we shall 
be able to bless them, if we now accept them in 
patience and in hope, looking to God and PI is dear 
Son. Their memory will even add to the bliss pre- 
pared for us.* 

A strange sensation crept through me at these 
words of Lily’s — a holy tremor I might call it, but 
fraught with pain. Should I be looking back some 
day from the fields of glory, back upon life on earth ? 
Ah, what a life ! I would mend my ways — indeed I 
would ! 

But I never succeeded in climbing that mountain 
of which Lily had spoken — the mountain of crucifixion. 
Its weight, on the contrary, is now upon me, crushing 
me to all eternity. 

A journey through Italy for a man of my descrip- 
tion may well be called a trial of patience. ^ Custom- 
house-officers, luggage-porters guides, hotel-keepers, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


159 


and the whole tribe of beggars swarm about you like 
persecuting wasps. The miserable greed of that 
class of Italians, with their constant attempts at 
cheating you, was more than I could brook. I 
often fe.’t ready to thrash every mother’s son of 
them that came in my way. But here also Lily 
was my saving angel. Having frightened her to 
tears once by an outbreak of passion, I felt so sorry 
at having grieved her that I was ready to submit 
all travelling affairs to her decision, satisfied she 
should guide me — another Una leading the lion ! 
She needed only to place her hand on my arm, 
looking at me with her beseeching eyes, and I was 
conquered, no matter what had been the provocation. 
She understood, none better than she, how to deal 
with the meanness that roused me. Blessings fol- 
lowed her where I met but imprecation. Blessings 
indeed seemed to grow up about her path wherever 
she went, and the blessing included me. I was 
growing better — I felt it. But it must have been a 
delusive feeling after all, for my heart was never 
changed 


LETTER XIII. 


There arc very aged people in hell, naturally. To 
be two or three thousand years old, according to 
human computation, is nothing unusual here. There 
are men in this place who lived in the time of 
Sardanapalus, of Cyrus, of Alexander the Great ; who 
knew Socrates perhaps, or Cicero, Horace, Seneca, 
and the like. Indeed, who can tell, but some of these 
historic personages themselves are here ! There are 
people here who remember the fall of Nineveh, the 
sacking of Troy, the destruction of Jerusalem ; who 
consulted the stars with the Chaldees of old, who 
tended the flocks in the days of Abraham, who 
helped to build the pyramids of Egypt ; others are 
here to whom Noah preached the deluge. Hell, then, 
would seem to be a fine place for the pursuit ol 
history ; but somehow no one cares for that study 
here, things being dead in this place and void of 
interest. I myself do not care in the least to become 
acquainted with historic characters — the only longing 
1 am conscious of in this respect, being to meet 
with a contemporary of the Saviour of men,— one 
who saw and heard Him, 1 mean. But it is a 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I6i 


fruitless desire. There are many here of course who 
lived in His day, and even listened to His teaching 
but, although they say they remember, they are quite 
incapable of imparting anything ; or they speak of a 
false Messiah, of a deceiver of the people. There is 
not a particle of truth in all their talk, and it is truth 
I am thirsting for so grievously. Is it not terrible ? 

But I am wandering from my subject : I was 
going to say that old people here assure you that 
the atmosphere of this place is fast turning into 
vapour — a pleasant prospect this if it goes on ! 

Now, I remember noticing that empty talk is 
on the increase in the world. Thoughtful men to 
whom I mentioned the observation believed cheap 
literature and the so-called education of the masses 
to be the probable cause. 

A strange explanation of the aforenamed pheno- 
menon, is it not ? Vanity of speech on the increase 
— a pleasant prospect truly if it continues ! To be 
sure the world could never do without its talk, 
but the superabundance is alarming ; a new deluge 
threatens, the spirit is lost in hollow words. The 
world used to be more simple, I am sure, in olden 
times ; straightforwa d statements, at any rate, used 
to be current much more than they are now. Inven- 
tion in all spheres is on the increase, the invention 
of pretences remarkably so. One feels inclined at 
times to call out despairingly : ‘ Words, words, 
words !’ as Hamlet did. I am sure words are the 
dominant power nowadays in so-called intellectual 
pursuits ; it is not the informing spirit, but the 
phrase, which is puffed and offered for sale. It has 
transoii'wd however, that the genius of talk is pre- 


i 62 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


pared to patronise the genius of mind, promising to 
save it from utter neglect, but the spirit will have 
none of it, crying : ‘ Let me die rather than be the 
slave of words !’ 

Another striking observation has been made here 
of late — the number of women in hell is on the 
increase. Now the emptiness of talk is scarcely a 
sufficient explanation of this fact, but a fact it is. 
Only half a century ago men used to preponderate 
by far ; at the present moment equality has very 
nearly been attained ; before long, I doubt not, the 
fairer sex will outnumber the stronger. 

There is a reason for everything, and the cause 
of the effect in question will appear patent to any 
one looking about him open-eyed. Education is at 
fault — that watchword of modern times ! We heat 
much nowadays of woman’s right to be educated. 
Not a doubt of it, and some few I believe manage 
their own creditable share of culture. It is not of 
those I would speak, but of the training of girls in a 
general way. How, indeed, do we educate them ? 
and is their mind, their heart, the better for the 
teaching they get ? Do we bring them to view in 
nature for instance, or in history, the eternal purpose 
of beauty and of truth ? Are we anxious that they 
?hould learn to distinguish between the pure and the 
.mpure, the mean and the noble, the paltry and the 
[ruly great ? that they should seek the ideal in life — 
ly, their own ideal, the crown of their womanhood ? 
Is it truth, is it love, we teach them? and above 
all, do we lead them to Him who is truth and love 
eternal, their God, their Saviour ? 

Do we, I ask ? but no. this is not the so-called 


LETTERS FROM HELL 




first-class education our girls get for all their 
governesses and finishing - masters ! Our girlS; 
coming forth from the schoolroom, will jabber their 
two or three foreign tongues, will rattle away on the 
piano, or sing a song, and happy are the ears that 
need not hear it ! Our girls, moreover, are found to 
have a smattering of things in general, enabling 
them to venture on all sorts of topics concerning 
which they are profoundly ignorant ; our girls are 
supposed to have acquired style and deportment to 
boot ; the art of dress being neither last nor least 
Every fold of their garments assumes a vital im- 
portance ; but concerning the bent of their hearts, 
who takes the trouble to inquire ? 

It is vanity, and their education a farce. Poor 
girls ! poor women ! You are worse off, I say, in 
these days of culture than you were in the darkest 
of ages when no one dreamt you needed teaching. 
In those days you were looked upon as though you 
had no souls ; time righted you, and it was allowed 
you were not mere puppets. Now you are being 
varnished over by way of education, till your soul 
lies encrusted beneath. 

The good old times, after all, were best. Oui 
grandmothers were brought up for home duties 
chiefly, and lesson-books were of the fewest beyond 
their Bibles and their catechism. Women knew their 
calling ; they accepted it at the hands of God, and 
were happy in doing their duty. But now — what 
of it? the clearest notion which girls and, I fear, 
many women, have of duty nowadays is, that it is 
a bore. 

And what is life, as they take it ? Is it not to 


t64 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


amuse themselves as lorg as possible, to play lawn 
tennis all day and every day, to catch a husband 
and have sweet little babies — little dears, images 
of their mother, of course — to be fashionable, shining 
in society, till old age overtakes them ; is not that 
it? But there remains one thing which is never 
mentioned — they may die any day and wake up in 
hell! 

Earth, truly, presents a variety of schools pre- 
paratory for hell ; those which men frequent are bad 
enough, but those for women — let angels weep I 

I went for a walk lately, passing by the gates 
of hell. Understand me aright ; I am not speaking 
of those awful gates of hell set up in defiance of 
the Lord of heaven Himself, though they cannot 
prevail. They are in the abyss I have spoken of, 
which is a far more dreadful place than this abode 
of death. I only mean that I passed near the 
entrance of Hades. 

An entrance truly it is, for of your own free will 
you never get out, wide open though you find it 
I cannot tell whether I contemplated anything like 
an escape : I only know that on approaching a certain 
boundary line an awful ‘Stop!’ resounded, and I 
slunk back terrified. 

No one, then, passes out, save under dread com- 
pulsion ; but there is a flocking in continuously. I 
forget what they say of the death-rate in the world, 
is it every minute or every second that a human 
soul goes to eternity? Be it as it may, it is a 
terrible fact that the greater part of those who die 
present themselves at these gates of hopelessness 
There is not a mere appalling sight in all hell than 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


165 


watchinqr this entrance ! The space beyond is wrapt 
in a shadowy mist, out of which lost souis are con- 
stantly emerging, singly or in troops, dawning upon 
your vision. They are all equally naked, differing 
but in sex and in age. The beggar and the king are 
not to be known from one another, both arriving in 
like miserable nakedness. That abject misery is the 
common mark of unredeemed humanity, set upon 
all the children of Adam coming hither, no matter 
what station was theirs in life. They have all come 
by the same road, broad and pleasant at 5rst, but 
terrible at its latter end. As they approach the 
gates they are seized with fear and trembling, and 
pass them in an agony of despair. 

The love of amusement nowadays scarcely stops 
short of the harassing ; men love to feast upon any- 
thing that excites their unhealthy fancy. But I 
assure you I have not sunk to that state of callous- 
ness which could look upon the dreadful scene un- 
moved. ' All these are coming to share my misery !’ 
I cried. Say not it was complacency clothed in 
pity ; there was something not altogether mean in 
my sympathy. I could have wept for them, as I 
long to weep for myself. 

Yet, after all, I felt fascinated by the sight, 
and tore myself away with difficulty ; the picture, I 
knevi, would pursue me into whatever solitude I 
might plunge. 

How rich is life, how full of enjoyment ! I see 
it now where nothing is left to comfort the soul. 
My life, I too cannot but own, was overflowing with 
blessings ; how many moments I can call to mind 
that seemed welling ever with content ! 


t66 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


The sound of a certain bell keeps coming back 
to my inward ear. I hear it ringing, ringing, and it 
vibrates through my inmost soul. It is the bell ol 
even-song, to which I loved to listen in days gone 
by. And as I hear it, the sounds call up a scene ol 
beauty rich with the hues of memory. I see waving 
cornfields, like sheets of gold between the sombre 
woodlands and the winding stream ; I see towering 
mountains lifting their rocky heights into the 
burnished colours of the west ; I see the sun sinking 
on the. horizon, vanishing in a wealth of roseate 
sheen. And twilight spreads her wings, a deep 
holy calm enwrapping nature. I say a holy calm 
for the sounds of the ringing bell are burdened 
with a message of peace to the soul. The smoke 
ascends from the cottages about, and the incense of 
prayer rises from many a heart. Those whom love 
unites gather in unity. The children nestle by their 
mother’s knee awaiting the father returning from 
work. And when he has come, they close the door 
upon the outside world, upon the troubles and hard- 
ships too that daily life may bring. Or if some 
cause of care will not be banished, there is love at 
hand to deal with it ; yea, it helps to nurture that 
love whose deepest roots are sunk in sorrow. 

Would I were that poor labourer returning fn.m 
the field he tills in the sweat of his brow ; or that 
barefooted youth keeping the cattle on the lea ! 

The evening bell continues ringing, ringing, to my 
car ; but the message it carries now is : 

‘Too late! too late!’ 

Ah, Lttle bell, my longing is turned to despair f 


LETTER XIV. 


S REVERT to my childhood. It was the eve of Aunt 
Betty’s birthday. My present had been waiting for 
ever so long ; I gloated over it in secret with dis- 
tracted feelings ; I would not for worlds have 
betrayed it prematurely, yet I longed to let her 
guess at the wonderful surprise in store for her. 
Thus divided in my childish mind I sought her little 
room in the twilight. 

She was not there, and I grew impatient. I must 
needs look for something to amuse me. But there 
was nothing that owned the charm of novelty. I 
gazed about, yawning, when a large moth on the 
window caught my eye. That called me to action, 
and, forgetful of all Aunt Betty’s pious injunctions 
to leave God’s creatures unmolested, I forthwith set 
up a chase. Nor was it long before I had caught 
the hapless insect ; it fluttered anxiously, but I held 
it fast, bent upon examining it, when suddenly Aunt 
Betty entered. Overtaken in my boyish cruelty, I 
closed my hand upon the little prisoner, and stood 
trembling. 

Aunt Betty however, did not seem to notice that 


i68 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I was ill at ease, and turned to me with her usual 
kindness. I felt very miserable, and conversation 
would not flow, so she told me a story, her usual 
device when she thought I needed rousing. Now, 
whatever her stories might be worth, — and they were 
not by any means always inventions of genius, — they 
were sure to culminate in some sort of moral which 
never failed to impress me. Aunt Betty’s story on this 
occasion led up to the statement — God seeth thee ! 

The words fell on me like judgment ; involun- 
tarily I hid my hand behind my back, my heart 
beating, ready to burst 

‘ You must know, darling,’ Aunt Betty went on 
unconsciously, ‘that God sits upon His holy throne, 
an angel on His right hand, and another on His left, 
each having a book before him. And the angel to 
the right marks down all the good, however little or 
weak, which man strives to do while he lives on 
earth ; that angel is always smiling a heavenly 
smile. But the angel on the left is full of weeping, 
as he notes down the evil deeds of men. And at 
the last day, when the great reckoning has come, a 
voice is heard from the throne — “ Give up the 
books !” And then our deeds are examined ; if there 
is more evil than good, and we have not repented 
of it humbly, and received forgiveness of sin, it 
will go ill with us ! We shall be for ever wailing in 
the evil place.’ 

This ending of auntie’s story troubled me 
greatly. I pressed my hand together closer and 
closer, feeling at the same time as though a live coal 
were burning my palm. It was conscience which 
burned. The poor moth must have been dead long 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


169 


before, yet I felt as though it were still fluttering 
within my grasp, trying to free itself from the unkind 
hold. ‘ God seeth all things,’ said auntie ; ‘ and we 
must answer to Him for all our deeds at the last day!* 
Self-control was at an end ; a flood of tears came to 
the rescue ; and, unable to say a single word, I held 
out my palm to Aunt Betty, the crushed moth 
witnessing against me. 

She understood at once, and drawing me to 
her heart she first pointed to the wrong of 
ciuvilty ; but added her own sweet words of consola- 
tion, that God would forgive me if my tears could 
tell Him I was sorry. But I was not able at once 
to grasp this assurance, sobbing piteously. Never 
was there anything more tender, more full of love, 
than Aunt Betty’s ways w'hen comfort was needed. 
And presently she made me kneel dovm and ask 
God to forgive me. It was she who prayed, I 
repeating the w'ords after her. But they came 
from my heart, and never was there more sincere 
repentance. 

And then she told me another story, and that 
story, too, must have its moral. Pressing me close 
to her heart she exhorted me to look to God in all 
my doings, and turn to Him in prayer my life long. 
Whenever I had done anything amiss I should tell 
Him so with a contrite heart, begging Him to 
forgive me, and promising Him sincerely that I 
would try not to do so again. Then the Lord 
God \ 70 uld pity me in His mercy, and I need not 
fear the dreadfu. book. 

As for the poor moth, we buried it sorrowfully in 
one of auntie’s flower-pots. We gave it a coffin of 


170 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


rose leaves, so that the mangled corpse need not be 
touched by the covering earth. 

My heart was light again when I left the little 
room. But all that night I was troubled in dreams. 
Again and again I heard the dreadful words, ‘ Give 
up the books !’ And, waking, I sat up in bed to 
find myself in the dark. I had never known 
before what it was to be afraid of the iark ; now 
I knew. 

The following morning, as soon as I was dressed, 
I ran to Aunt Betty’s door, finding it locked contrary 
to habit. * It is me, auntie !’ I cried, and was 
admitted directly. But I stood still, amazed ; the 
tears ran down Aunt Betty’s fa.e. On the table 
before her there was the most marvellous array of 
queer old things, which I did not remember ever 
having seen. Indeed, such was my amazement and, 
I must add, my grief, that I forgot all about the 
precious present I had come to deliver. My first 
clear idea was that Aunt Betty too perchance might 
have crushed a moth ; but a brighter thought super- 
vened. ‘Auntie,’ I whispered, pressing close to her, 
‘ didn’t you say last night that God seeth all things ? 
Does He see you are crying ?’ 

Aunt Betty started, a flood of light illumining her 
features : 

‘Yes, darling,* she said, ‘thank you! He does 
know all things and He knows my tears ; it is very 
w rong of me to forget it He does not only know 
them, but He counts them !’ 

And quickly she dried them, showing me her own 
old smiling face. 

‘ Can you not see, my child, how the Lord has 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


171 


wiped them away ? He needs but look upon poor 
human eyes and they cease crying.* 

Hut why did you cry, auntie ? 

‘That is more than you could understand, dearie. 
I am forty years old this day, but why need I cry ? 
why should I, even if I were an old maid of sixty or 
eighty ? ay, and if He will have me live till I am a 
hundred, I will not murmur. Come and sit down 
by me, that I may talk to you.’ And she began : 

‘Years ago, my child, there was a young girl as 
pretty as she was foolish. She believed the world to 
be indescribably beautiful, and that all its glories were 
waiting to be showered into her lap. There was no 
harm in this illusion in itself ; but it was hurtful 
because altogether untrue. The world is not meant 
to be so delightful to any of us. The girl herself 
was really pretty, and when people told her so, she 
would cast down her eyes, feeling as though she 
must sink into the ground for shyness. 

‘ There was one especially who told her so times 
without number. And he was beautiful without a 
doubt — strong, manly, and winning. He was a sailor 
It was a time of war, and he commanded a privateer. 

‘ She loved him dearly, with all her heart. There 
was a ball one day — do you know what a ball is ? 
It is a queer thing — a mixture of angelic delight and 
devilish invention. One is carried along, floating, as 
it were, in the airy spaces between heaven and earth 
and hell — at least / think so. . . . Well, when the 
ball was over he entreated her for one of her gloves. 
There was nothing she could have refused him at 
that moment, I believe He had it — and here you 
see its fellow I* 


172 


LETfERS FROM HELL. 


And she shov/ed me number one of her relics— 
an ancient kid glove. 

‘ But the young girl’s paren ts said he was an 
adventurer and not fit to marry into a respectable 
family. That was her first grief. Still he had her 
heart ; she said she would never love another, and 
they were permitted at last to be engaged to o..e 
another. This is the ring he gave her I 

* Now she swam in happiness. One voice only 
in all the universe had power over her heart, and 
that voice was his. It might have been true that 
he was not without many and grave faults, but she 
loved him just as he was. He might have sunk 
lower and lower, I believe she would have loved him 
still. For, once the heart has been given away truly 
— but that is more than you can understand. Well, 
he went to sea, and returned. It was a splendid 
vessel which he commanded, the “Viking,” they called 
it. One capture after another he made, and grew 
rich upon the prizes taken. But people said money 
never remained with him ; he was careless of it, and 
prone to gambling. This is the ship I* 

She showed me a little picture representing a 
schooner skimming over the bluest of seas. 

‘ His absence sometimes was long. But they 
exchanged letters whenever opportunity offered — 
such letters ! All her soul was in hers. And as 
for his — well, here they arc!’ 

She pointed to a packet of faded letters, carefully 
tied togethei with a once rose-coloured ribbon. 

‘ And then there came a time when news ceased. 
What she felt and suffered in those sad days I 
cannot tell you. At last she heard again. He was 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


173 


ill — the letter said — very ill in a foieign seaport. 
Winter was approaching, but she would not be 
deterred. Taking her trusted maid with her, she 
set out upon the journey, and found him in misery. 
He had been wounded in a duel — what that is you 
need not know, but here is the bullet ! 

‘ She nursed him and he recovered ; she freed 
him from his liabilities, paying all his debts. Full 
of contrition, and with a new heart apparently, he 
returned with her ; his promises satisfied her and 
her family. He would give up privateering, and 
take the command of a merchantman instead. She 
should go with him as his wife. 

‘ Once more they were to separate and then be 
united for life. He went to visit his relations and 
settle his affairs. 

‘ The weeks passed, the wedding-day approached 
Happy hour that should crown her hopes, heal 
her griefs, and reward her for all past suffering 1 
The wedding-dress was ready. This is the wreath 
— do you know the bridal blossoms ? Poor wreath, 
it is faded now and shrivelled, but it will last, I 
think, while two eyes are left to look upon it fondly, 
for the sake of the love that came and went. 

‘ There was another letter. He had set out to 
join her, but turned half-way, never to see her again. 
Here is that saddest of letters ; what tears it cost 
her — what pangs — to answer it ! 

‘ Was he wicked ? I do not think so, but very 
heedless. He had surrounded himself with difficul- 
ties. and there was but one way out of them ; one 
heart must be broken. His uncle, who adopted him, 
had r daughter — God bless her 1 He had engaged 


174 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


himself twice over ; men, I fear, can do such things. 
He could redeem his pledge to one only. He did 
his duty by her, who perhaps had suffered most for 
him, and who — but let that pass. They say that 
he settled down and made her a good husband. T 
trust the Lord has forgiven him the sins of his youth, 

‘ But for that other one, who gladly would have 
sacrificed her all for his sake, happiness was dead 
and gone, her beauty fading with her hopes. She 
grew old, and people began to find her plain. She 
had nothing left to live for — in herself I mean — so 
she lived for others. The world is bad, but men 
need sympathy ; they are not all bad, but many are 
unhappy, suffering, and poor. The old maid has 
found comfort in God, her Lord and Saviour.’ 

She stopped, and carefully set herself to pack up 
her treasures. 

And that accomplished, she turned to me smiling : 

‘ I have done for a year !’ she said ; let us think 
Df breakfast now.’ 

I, of course, had not taken in the meaning of 
her story, nor was there any need. She had felt a 
longing to unburden herself to human ears ; she had 
done so, but her secret was hers. 

Now I remember her words, understanding them 
as I did not then ; I am able to enter into her 
feelings now — those feelings of her fortieth birthday, 
when she, the so-called old maid, poured out her 
heart to the child. 

At dinner Aunt Betty appeared unusually gay, 
making the funniest little speeches, and keeping us 
in the best of humour all that day. 

But those words of hers ‘ God sceth thee,’ would 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


175 


return to me often, even in later years. They had 
been words of comfort to my pious old aunt ; to me 
they sounded as the trumpets of judgment, so differ ent 
was I from her! And then the time came when I 
learnt to disregard those words entirely — when it was 
nothing to me tc crush many a creature of God’s 
making, that because of my touch never would lift 
wing again. 

To pass the time seems to be one of the chief 
objects in life, and how to pass it a question on 
which the most ingenious inventions have been 
brought to bear. Whether the wickedness or the 
folly of the endeavour is the more deplorable is 
difficult to say. There are few phrases showing the 
perversity of the world more fully than this current 
expression, to pass the thne! Time and life are in- 
separable ; men want to live ; they consequently try 
to pass away the time, and yet it is time which 
yields the fulness of existence, be it in sorrow or in 
joy. To pass the time is considered to live ; but at 
the end of time stands Death, with hour-glass and 
sickle, waiting for the last grains to run out. Pass- 
ing the time, then, may be tantamount to slow self- 
murder. Men are anxious to pass it away as though 
it were a frightful monster — an enemy to life and its 
enjoyment — never thinking that the real enemy may 
be coming when time has vanished. If people would 
but understand that time is their most precious gift 
— a grace of heavenly fulness — and that all the 
treasures of the East can never make up for a day 
wasted, for an hour lost I And if a single hour may 
be se rich it biessing, what then must time itself be 


176 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


worth, lying before us as a shoreless ocean ? But 
the entire blessedness of the gift will come to the 
believing heart only in the kingdom to come, 'vhere 
Love rules which made the time. 

In hell, where everything is seen in its own true 
light, the passing of time, or rather time passed, 
assumes an awful significance ; for truth and reality 
are upon us. It was time which, for us also, included 
the largess of life — the manifold blessings shed abroad 
by the hand of God. Time is past now, and hope 
has fled. Ay, we ourselves are thrust out of it, never 
to enter again ; time for us has vanished, leaving 
existence behind. 

of the great sources of amusement on earth 
for the beguiling of dull time is the theatre. Well, 
we too have a theatre, though time with us needs no 
more whiling away. Old habit only is its raison 
d'itre. Women need something here to incite their 
fancy, men something to meet their craving — not 
to mention the question of food for fashionable con- 
versation. There is no weather here to be talked 
about, so we must fall back upon the theatre. 

Acting with us is carried out in a magnificent if 
peculiar style, the like of which is not possible in 
the world, not even in Paris, that theatre of theatres. 
True, we are poor in dramatic works, for not many 
plays of poet’s invention are so glaringly immoral that 
they are fit for hell ; the greater number being vapid 
rather than wicked, no one cares for them here. 
But we have resources outdoing anything dreamt of 
by stage managers upon earth ; for we nearly always 
act life — real occurrences that is — the actors being 
the very perpetrators of the things set in scene 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


177 


That is to say, they commit over again on helFs 
stage the deeds of their earthly life The theatre- 
going public with us then do not feed upon imagina- 
tion, but on flat reality, the child of illusion. 

Of stage managers there is no lack here, but 
theirs is no enviable task. It needs their utmost 
exertion to outdo one another in producing things 
horrible or piquant ; for people here also desire to 
be tickled, hlasS though they be. So the harassed 
manager rushes about seeking for some spicy occur- 
rence, some sensational wickedness ; and having got 
it, he must look for the men and women who did it, 
though they be roaming in the farthermost places of 
hell. Find them he must, and having found them, 
there is no help for them ; they m.ust play their part. 

Let me give an example. There is a piece which 
made a great hit here lately, called the ‘ Jewel 
Robbery,’ a most satanic mixture of seduction, 
murder, and theft. A handsome woman, good- 
natured, but silly, is intentionally led astray, as a 
means only ; the object being a famous robbery, 
necessitating two frightful murders besides. A piece 
full of the most unwholesome effect, you see, and 
not invented by exaggerating playwright’s fancy ; but 
a reproduction, in all minutest details even, of horrible 
facts. The daily papers were full of it at the time. 
They are all here who were mixed up in it, continuing 
to pla}' the part that brought them hither. You will 
understand from this that we could not act virtuous 
pieces even if the audience desired them ; the needful 
actors not being procurable 1 

Our theatre, nevertheless, plainly has the advan- 
tage, since real murdere-s, villains, and profligates are 
12 


178 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


here to take their parts, and all the pieces given are 
scenes of actual life ; our dramatis personcB^ then, 
though forced to play, do so with singular vivacity 
and truthfulness. If good people are required, by 
way of dupes and victims, we fall back upon hypo- 
crites who delight in the opportunity of showing 
forth their special talents, and indeed they manag-j 
their assumed character very cleverly. 

Moral laws naturally are quite out of the question, 
there is no eventual victory of goodness, nor need 
the triumph of wickedness be sustained. Play-acting 
in hell is quite independent of rules, either moral oi 
dramatic, pieces simply being carried to the point., 
they reached in life. 

The scenery is unrivalled, — illusion of course, but 
the illusion is perfect. It is quite within our power 
to imagine any place, the surroundings of the original 
plot, mere jugglery, but appearing most real. These 
scenes sometimes are wonderfully impressive, mduy 
a spectator, at the unexpected sight of well-known 
places, falling a prey to hopeless longing. 

Effective, then, as these representations are, they 
are a torment alike to actor and audience. In this 
also we are driven to own the one law paramount 
that makes inclination here a terrible compulsion — 
not leaving so much as a desire even that it might 
be otherw**^ 


LETTER XV. 


Should the idea present itself to you to publish 
these letters, you have my full permission for doing 
so — not that I write them with this view primarily. 
And people very likely will doubt their genuineness. 
‘ Even supposing souls in hell to be able to write 
letters,* they will say, ‘ how should their missives 
reach the upper world ? ’ 

People are strangely inconsistent. The man lives 
not who has not heard of spirits and ghosts, while a 
great many actually believe in supernatural appear- 
ances. Now supposing there are ghosts, why should 
not ghost letters be conceivable ? And what more 
natural than to imagine that some restless spirit, 
permitted to revisit former scenes, should somehow 
mediate such communication ? 

Such is indeed the fact in the present case. Count 
the letters you have had from me, and be sure that 
so many ghosts have been to your dwelling. Do not 
be horrified ! I do not entrust my confessions to 
any wandering soul, but only to respectable spirits- 
Indeed, if the natural shrinking of mortal man were 
not in your way, you might find some of them worth 


i8o 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the knowing. In any case I pledge them to polite 
behaviour, that they shall nowise harass you, but do 
their errand unseen. Not all ghosts have a character 
for worrying mortals ; some, on the contrary, are 
exceedingly trustworthy, and could be sent anywhere. 

Be it known to you, then, that whenever you find 
yourself possessed of fresh news from me, some 
ghost has been to your house that night. Did you 
not find a letter beneath your desk lately — on the 
floor I mean ? This is how it was. On leaving off 
writing the evening before, you left your pen and 
pencil crosswise on the table — quite by accident, I 
dare say ; but my messenger, on perceiving the holy 
sign, was seized with such a fit of trembling that he 
dropped the letter and sped away. And while I am 
about it, I would ask you to get rid of the super- 
numerary cocks in your farmyard ; the piercing 
call of the bird of dawn may be all very well 
in your ears, but to us it bears a terrible warning, 
reminding us of a day to come, the day of resurrec- 
tion and final doom, which we know must come, 
however distant it be. 

My handwriting I dare say is not very legible ; I 
hope you will excuse it. There is not a pen to be 
had here but what has been worn out in the service 
of falsehood or injustice. The paper too is wretched. 
I could find nothing but some old documents to 
serve the purpose, and upon examining them mo^e 
closely I do believe they are nothing less than the 
false decretals of 853 — nice material to write on! 
As for ink, alas, my friend, what should you say if 
it were my very heart-blood I write with? It is 
black enough nr doubt 1 


..ETTERS FROM HELL. 


idi 


I need not tell you that my letters will not bear 
keeping. They fade away in daylight You can 
only preserve their contents by copying them on 
the spot 

This present letter I intend forwarding to you 
by the hand of a remarkable personage — one of the 
many interesting acquaintances I have made here 
— who is rbout to revisit the earth. He is one of 
the famous knights of Charles the Bold, who met 
their death by the brave lances of the Swiss at the 
battle of Murten. Proud and noble is his bearing, 
and he goes fully armed, from the spur on his heel to 
the plume on his helmet ; but the spurs do not clink, 
and the plume will not wave. He carefully keeps 
his visor closed, so that I have no knowledge of his 
face, although I seem to know him intimately from 
his conversation. I believe he feels ashamed. He 
cannot forget that he, the famous champion, renowned 
for many a victorious encounter, met his death by 
the hand of an ordinary peasant 

It is the consciousness of his high dignity which 
prevents him from mixing freely with people. He 
lives like a hermit almost, immured in his own pride. 
It was mere accident that gained me his notice. I 
was delivering a panegyric in some public locality 
concerning the merits of the wine of Beaune, stating 
tl at I had drunk it on the spot. When the com- 
pany had dispersed I found myself alone with him 
of the armour. 

‘ You have been to Burgundy ? * he queried, 
hollow-voiced. 

* I have, sir.* 

' A.nd to Beaune neai ^ Dijon ? * 


I83 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


* I have, sir knight* 

‘C6te d’or thou glorious, never-to-be-forgotten 
country ! * he murmured, beneath the visor. And 
turning upon his heel he left me to my cogitations. 

That wa.s the beginning of our acquaintance ; ^ 
met him again, and he appeared to take to me. He 
gave me many a glowing description of the splendour 
surrounding Charles the Bold, of his glorious army, 
of the great future then apparently in store for 
Burgundy, of the battles and tournaments that had 
enriched him with trophies. But he never mentioned 
either Granson or Murten. On the other hand, he 
was anxious to learn from me the present condition 
of the once famous Burgundy, the power and exploits 
of France, the modern perfections of the art of war, 
and the tactics of battles. He could listen to me for 
hours. 

But what interested him most, and gained me his 
confidence fully, was my telling him about my sojourn 
in the Cevennes, and the days I spent in exploring 
the charming hill-range deserving so fully its appella- 
tion of Cote d’or. Never enough of detail could I 
give him concerning my knowledge of those scenes 
of beauty. He would guide me, putting question 
upon question ; but it was as if one question kept 
hovering on his lips which he dared not ask. My 
recollections brought me at last to Castle Roux. 
He started visibly as I named it, and grew silent, 
waiting breathlessly for what I might volunteer. 

Much might be said concerning that castle. It 
is a mountain fastness of ancient date, modern times 
having restored it in fanciful style ; its owner being 
proud of it as of a relic of anFquity, and inhabiting it 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


183 


for several months in the year. The fauiily is old, 
but the original title of Roux has yielded to another 
name v> ell known in the annals of France. 

The old castle, interesting in itself, is rich 
in curiosities besides. I gave an account of all 
that might be seen within the venerable walls, 
describing the labyrinthine passages, the queer, old, 
winding-stairs leading to all sorts of secret places, 
the lofty battlements commanding a view of the 
fertile tracts round about ; I spoke of the dismal 
keeps hewn into the rock, where hapless prisoners 
for years might dream of the vanished daylight ; I 
mentioned the armoury and the great hall filled 
with the cognisances of knighthood. In short I 
took my visored friend right through the castle, 
one door only remaining closed to my roaming 
description, that of the so-called red chamber which 
I myself had not entered. I had been told that 
never mortal foot should cross its threshold again. 
Centuries ago something terrible had happened in that 
room — what? I could not learn. The old steward, 
who acted as my guide on the occasion of my visit, 
communicative as he was in a general way, was most 
reserved concerning the past history of the family, 
but some account had been given me in the little 
village inn where I spent a couple of nights, and it 
c’ung to memory. 

Concerning the secret chamber no one seemed 
to know anything, but I learned a wonderful story 
of the so-called ‘ Cold Hand.’ Whenever the head 
of the family for the time being — so the tale ran — is 
about to commit some act detrimental to the honour 
or welfare of the house, he is warned at the decisive 


184 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


moment by the touch of a cold hand. At the 
very moment he stretches f^rth his own hand, be 
it in friendship cr in enmity, an icy hand, invisible, 
is laid — not always upon his hand — sometimes on 
his cheek, on his neck, or upon the crown of his 
head. Through centuries and up to the present 
time the ‘ cold hand ’ in this manner has swayed the 
fortunes of the family. The influence was experienced 
last when the late owner, who died but recently, was 
about to tie the nuptial knot. The festive company 
was gathered in the great hall ; he had just taken 
hold of the pen to sign the marriage-contract, when 
the icy touch of a cold hand closed upon his fingers. 
He staggered, turned white as a corpse, and dropped 
the pen. Neither prayer nor menace could prevail 
with him to make him fulfil his engagement ; the 
wedding never took place. 

I concluded by saying that it remained, of course, 
with the hearer to credit the story ; some believed 
such family traditions — some did not ; one could 
but form one’s own opinion. 

The visored knight, however, did not appear to 
think there were two ideas about it. His head 
shook slowly, and the hollow voice made answer : 

‘ It is true, man, every word of it. I am the last 
Count of Roux ! . . . I am the Cold Hand !’ 

I shrunk back terrified and stood trembling, for 
so powerful are the instincts of mortal life that they 
cleave to us still : why should one shrink from a 
fellow-ghost in hell, where all hands are cold ? 

The Count stood groaning. 

‘ Hear me,’ he said , ‘ I will tell you my story ’ 

1 could but listen, and he began : 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


185 


‘ I have never yet discovered what cause brought 
me to this place of punishment, unless it be the fact 
that overmuch piety governed me in life. I was 
ruled by the priests, body and soul, and obeyed 
their behests blindly. 

‘ Some centuries ago a colony from Provence 
had settled in the valleys of the Cevennes ; they 
were quiet people, and patterns of diligence, the 
neighbourhood indeed had only gained by their 
presence. Peaceful and harmless, they seemed glad 
of the retreat they had found. But then they were 
heretics, forming a religious community, a remnant 
of the Albigenses in fact. At first they kept their 
creed to themselves ; but by degrees, feeling settled 
in their new home, they confessed their heresies 
openly, attempting even to gain others to their views. 
They claimed the right for every Christian to read 
the Bible for himself ; and repudiated anything that 
was not in keeping with the Scriptures and the 
teaching of the Apostles. That was dangerous doc- 
trine, and could not fail to call forth the resistance 
of the clergy. The struggle reached its height about 
the time I entered upon manhood. As an obedient 
son of the Church I closed my eyes to harm accruing 
to myself, and drove them mercilessly from my 
dominion. It was a crusade in small, a repetition 
of Albigensian persecution. The third part of my 
county was laid waste ; devastation reigned where 
thrift and wealth had flourished, and I myself bad 
done it. Nothing but the assurance that so dire a 
sacrifice would gain me a high place in heaven could 
uphold me through the pangs of loss, and the priesti 
did their best to strengthen my belie'' 


i86 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


‘And yet I lived to rue it. The Church for which 
I had done so much would not do anything for me, 
at least not what I wanted. I wished to marry the 
lovely Lady Cyrille de Breville, but was refused dis- 
pensation because she was a distant cousin. Endless 
were the difficulties, the humiliations I underwent 
Entreaty, menace, promise of money availed not 
My gracious Liege interfered ; it was vain. I my- 
self went on a pilgrimage to Rome. Two years had 
been spent in mortifying endeavour when at last I 
gained my end. 

‘ Indeed, had it been in my power to recall the 
Albigenses, I would have done it, so wroth was I. 

‘ Cyrille then became my wife, doubly dear for 
the battle that had won her, and for the faithful 
endurance with which she clave to me. For I had 
had a dangerous rival in the Count of Tournailles. 
There stood nothing in the way of a marriage with 
him ; but she had preferred to wait till I could 
lead her to the altar. For some five or six years 
I was in a heaven of bliss. Our union had been 
blessed with two children, a boy and a girl. What 
sc few can say, we could : our happiness was com • 
plete. Then the time came when Duke Charles 
called his vassals to arms. Knighthood loved to 
obey, but it was a wrench to affection. I went 

‘ You know the history of that unfortunate wai ; 
how, having conquered Lorraine, we faced the Swiss 
Granson, Murten — terrible names ! It is a mystery 
to me to this day how it came about ; I doubt 
not that unearthly powers interfered. I fell at 
Murten, and lifting my eyes again, found myself 
here. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


187 

‘ I, who had buiU upon the assurance of having a 
place in heaven, tc be thrust into hell by the hand 
of a low-born churl ! I shall never get over the 
disgrace. And my loving wife, my darling children 
— stronger than the feeling of shame was the longing 
for them. It drove me back to earth, a restless, 
wandering soul. 

‘ Never shall I forget that first spirit journey in 
mist and darkness. I drew near my own old home, 
a stranger, an outcast, sick and lonely at he:-.rt : 
feeling as those must feel who in the dead of night 
follow the ways of sin. Every noise made me 
tremble ; I shuddered at the falling leaf. It was 
agony. Why did I not turn on my path and hie 
me back to hell ? You well may ask — but I was 
driven onward, a terrible constraint was upon me. 
Slowly I went from place to place, every well-known 
spot adding its individual pain ; I drank the dregs 
of memory. At last I reached the castle, on which 
the fitful moonlight cast a spectral glimmer. 

‘ What a change ? Surely I was the same I 
had always been, but there was something that 
made me feel a stranger to myself! Oh for tears 
to weep I I spurned them in the days of life, but 
now, what would I not have given for a healing 
tear ? Vainest longing ! I stood and trembled, 
horror-struck as at the sight of a ghost ; yet I 
nr.yself was the ghost — let others fear 1 Was ever 
such a reception I The wind moaned in tree-tops, 
doors creaked, shadows glided through passages — I 
stood listening ; the dogs whined, the cattle were 
restless, my once favoured charger moved uneasily 
in his stall 


i88 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


‘ As a thief I entered my own castle, stole up 
the staircase, and passed noiselessly from room to 
room. But the place felt forsaken, empty, and cold 
My children, I must see them first. I found them 
in the sweet sleep of innocence, cradled in health and 
beauty. Never till that moment had I known the 
despair of love. My eyes beheld them, life of my 
life, yet mine no more. I longed to embrace them, 
press them to my heart, but dared not — simply dared 
not. I could but groan and hie me away. 

‘ On I went, the well-known way, to my own old 
chamber with the nuptial couch. That room is 
locked now and never entered by mortal foot — the 
room of the mystery. Overpowered with feelings 
unutterable, I lingered on the threshold, so near to 
seeing her again, her ! 

‘ And I saw her — asleep in the arms of another, 
the arms of my former rival, the Count of Tournailles. 
I stood for a moment, rooted to the ground. How 
beautiful she was — beautiful as ever. But oh, the 
depth of torment ! I, to whom her love had been 
pledged for ever and aye, forgotten, betrayed ! 
“Hapless woman!” I groaned, “is it thus thou 
keepest thy vow ? is it thus thou art loyal to my 
memory ?” 

‘ I stood clenching my fists in helpless rage, and 
gnashing my teeth. What could I do? Let me 
wake her at least; she shall see me! And stretching 
forth my hand across the well-known bed, I laid it 
upon her uncovered shoulder. She started at the 
icy touch ; she saw me ; I must have offered an awful 
sight, for she gave a scream rousing echoes of horror, 
and lay fainting on the pillow. I vanished. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


189 


‘ But my wrath was boundless. From that hour 
I persecuted her ruthlessly ; when she expected it 
least the touch of my hand was upon her. She 
never saw me again, but I think that made my pre- 
sence all the more horrible to her. At night especi- 
ally I would be near her, watching that never again 
she might rest in his arms. My cold hand, forbid- 
ding, was between them. They went about like 
ghosts themselves, worn and harassed ; the grave 
seemed yawning to receive them. The time came 
when they could not bear it any longer, and resolved 
to separate. She entered a cloister, and there my 
hand was powerless. In that peaceful retreat her 
child was born, and from him are descended the 
present owners of Castle Roux. 

‘ My own children drooped and died. That was 
the last great sorrow touching me in the upper 
world. I stood by their bier. That turned my 
heart ; I felt something like regret ; perhaps after all 
I had been too hard upon her. A dead husband is 
no husband, and has nothing to claim ; whereas she 
was in the fulness of life, young and fitted for joy, 
owing duty to nature and to the world. In volun- 
tary penance I resolved henceforth to watch over 
Cyrille’s son, and his children’s children after him. 
It was a sacred vow, and I have kept it since. This, 
then, is the “ cold hand of Roux.” An unmistak- 
able presentiment, akin to direct revelation, informs 
me of any hurtful step a member of the family 
may be about to take ; and then I cannot rest in 
hell, but am driven back to the world to interfere 
at the decisive moment. With few exceptions, every 
scion of the family, man or woman, has felt my 


J90 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


hand ; and it will be so till the last of them has 
been gathered to his fathers. 

‘At the present moment the call is again upon 
me, urging me to revisit the land of the living. 
What it is that requires my presence I cannot tell ; 
but I know my time, and the cold hand will never 
fail of its mission.’ 

Thus spoke the Count; and having finished, he fell 
a prey to silence, leaving me to myself. I expect to 
meet him again^ and doubt not that he will take 
charge of this letter. But thou, my friend, hast 
nothing to fear from the cold hand of Roux. 

You cannot ask me, but the question would seem 
natural: ‘Will you not return to earth yourself? if 
others are coming, why not you ? ’ I hardly know 
what to say. It is not an impossible thought that 
I too might be driven some day to revisit the upper 
world. I say driven, for no one goes unless urged 
by an inward necessity — unmistakable and irresistible 
Should the compelling need at any time lay hold of 
me, I should have no choice but to go. I trust it may 
never be, for it would be adding new pangs to the 
misery I endure. I expect that the author of that 
need is none but Satan himself ; for surely the Lord 
in heaven has nothing to do with it. The bare 
thought of such a possibility brings back all the 
horrors of death, and hope cries out. Let me nev'ei 
quit hell ! 

Stop and consider the awful po 'erty of hope that 
has nothing left but this 1 


LETTER XVI. 

In Italy the glories of nature reach their perfection 
at eve. My mother not being much of a walker, 
Lily and I would stroll about by ourselves. Venice, 
Florence, Naples, — enchanting memories ! Not now, 
I mean, but in the days of life. 

I Those Italian evenings were an indescribable 
' mixture of beauty and delight ; nature a very cradle 
of peace — and peace speaking to my soul. For I 
1 had Lily with me ; and no matter what scenes of 
1 humanity might surround us, she and I seemed alone 
at such moments. 

I The most perfect delights I tasted at Florence. 

' We visited the Piazza del Gran Duca, the centre of 
j life in that city. Surrounded by magnificent build- 
I ings, the place radiant with light, you feel as though 
j you had entered some lordly hall, gigantic in size, 
I and of royal splendour, roofed over by the starry 
I sky. 

I Here you see that ancient palace, with its grand 
I mediaeval tower, which has looked down upon many 
I a stormy gathering in the days of the republic, 
I upon Dante too, Michael Angelo, Savonarola. In 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


f^2 

front of it are two colossal statues — David and Her- 
cules. Not far distant — on the very spot, tradition 
says, where Savonarola suffered death on the pyre, — 
a fountain sends up her sparkling jets, guarded by 
Tritons and Fauns, and surmounted by a figure of 
Neptune, the ruler of seas. Again, a little farther 
stands the equestrian statue of Cosmo di Medici, cast 
in bronze, a master-work by Giambologna. On the 
opposite side a flight of steps, presided over by a 
pair of antique lions, leads you into the glorious 
Loggia dei Lanzi. Here, by the light of lamps, you 
behold some of Italy’s noblest treasures of art — 
Perseus, the Deliverer, by Benvenuto Cellini ; Judith 
and Holofernes ; Hercules and the Centaur ; the 
famous marble group by Giambologna, representing 
the Rape of the Sabines ; and Ajax, with the dying 
Patroclus in his arms. In the background you see 
a number of Vestals of more than human size. These 
statues, seemingly alive and breathing in the magic 
light, cast over you a wondrous spell, holding you 
transfixed. The fact that a collection of such price- 
less works of art can be open to the public freely — 
entrusted to that instinctive reverence for things 
beautiful to which the lowest even .... 

But fool that I am, going off into aesthetics! 
Am I not in hell ! Nay, laugh not, but pity me, foi 
I could not join in your merriment. 

So great is the power of memory ; it is upon me, 
dragging me back to scenes long dead and gone 
Memories ? what are they but my life — my all I 
But they are bare of enjoyment ; they are as a cup 
of poison that will not kill, but which fills you with 
horror and unutterable despair. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


193 


It was with a deep inward joy, lifting us as it were 
to that height where reality and enchantment meet, 
that Lily and I moved slowly through that hall of 
art We hardly spoke. And when satisfaction for 
the moment had her fill, we escaped to the dimly-lit 
arcades of the Palazzo degli Uffizi. There words 
would come ; the charm was broken, though its spell 
remained. How much we had to say to one another; 
how sweet, how tender was Lily’s trustful voice! As 
her arm rested on mine I seemed to hear the very 
beat of her heart. And what delight to me to open 
her mind to the treasures she had seen, to rouse new 
feelings of beauty in that waking soul, so responsive 
and so pure I 

When the shadows of night had deepened, we 
would return home, passing the stately cathedral. 
Stillness had settled, spreading wings of peace. 
Maria del Fiore they call this church, and truly it is 
a fitting name. Florence means the flowering city, 
and this sacred pile is a very blossom of beauty in 
her midst. It needed one hundred and sixty years 
for the cathedral’s stately growth. Her cupola over- 
looks not only the whole of the town, but the whole 
of the radiant valley ; the splendid belfry, rich in 
sculpture, lifting its graceful front to a height of 
three hundred feet Not far from it stands that 
ancient baptistry, with its wondrous gate of bronze, 
which, as Michael Angelo said, was worthy of being 
the gate of Paradise. In front of it there is a 
rough -hewn stone bench. There Lily would often 
rest when tired by our wanderings. There Dante 
had sat, dreaming about Paradise and hell, and 
thinking of Beatrice. 


*3 


194 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


One evening I asked Lily which part of the city 
pleased her best 

* The Piazza is very beautiful/ she said ; ‘ but aftei 
all it is a far-off sort of beauty, carrying one back 
to heathen times ; here I feel at home, the very 
stones breathing Christianity. The difference is very 
strange ; at this place the living faith takes hold ol 
me that, roam where you will in the world, you must 
return to the Lord for content. The world with all 
its glory cannot satisfy us as He can.* 

‘Ah, Lily, would I could believe like you!’ I 
cried involuntarily, pressing her hand till it must 
have pained her — I scarcely knew it. 

Suppressing an exclamation she looked at me 
with earnest surprise, saying uneasily : 

‘ Oh, Philip, don’t ! as compared to you I am but 
an ignorant child.’ 

‘Yes, Lily, but your childlike heart is the treasure 
I envy. Is it not an old blessed truth that to 
children is given what is hidden from the wise? 
Perhaps you can answer me a question, Lily ; it may 
be all plain to you, though many of the great and 
learned make it a bewildering riddle. What is being 
a Christian ?’ 

‘ Dear Philip, what should it be but having Christ 
in your heart.’ 

These words of hers cut me to the soul. Hcm- 
often had I felt that it was Satan, or at least an evil 
spirit that dwelt in me. 

‘Yes,’ said Lily, as if to herself in quiet rapture, 

‘ that is it — so simple, and yet so great. Him alone 
I desire, and, having Him, I have father and mother 
and all the world. He makes His abode with me 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


195 


that in Him I may live and move, and have my 
being. He alone is my Saviour, my Lord, my all’ 
And softly she added after a while : * Lord Christ, 
let me be true to thee, till thou take me home ! * 

A deep silence followed. The memories of child- 
hood pressed around me, as if wrestling for my heart. 
I was moved — unutterably moved. I felt as though 
the tears were rising to my eyes, and, hushing all 
other feelings, the one thought took shape : She is 
the angel that is to lead thee back to God. 

‘ But, dearest Philip,’ said Lily, after a long pause, 
‘ that question could not have come from your heart ; 
I do not understand you.’ 

I made some reply, scarcely knowing what I 
said. I felt her arm trembling within mine ; she 
stopped short ; we were standing in front of one of 
those little madonnas, illumined by a lamp. 

* Let me look you in the face,’ she said. * I felt as 
if some stranger were speaking to me. . . . No, I am 
sure ; it is your own self — you could never change !’ 

And she laughed at her own foolish fancy, as she 
called it. 

Lily’s laughter, at any time as brightest music to 
my ears, broke the evil spell. I felt light-hearted 
again, the shadows had vanished before the health- 
giving sun. 

‘ Never to you ! ’ I cried, drawing her close, ‘ and 
you are my own little friend, so good, so true, in- 
tended to be a blessing to me in life and in death ! * 

I have met her again, I have met Annie ! She 
sat apart, strangely occupied. Her long hair fell 
about her ; she was taking little shells and bits of 


196 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


reeds out of the dripping tresses. Her slight gar- 
ment had slipped from her shoulder. Oh, horror ! I 
saw the brand of shame disfiguring the snowy skin. 
It was a mark red as blood, and the conscience of 
blood-guiltiness raised its voice in my soul. 

As an open page her heart lay revealed to my sight 
Shame and despair dwelt therein. But her life’s 
history was not written there. Her face, once so 
lovely, now so degraded, bore the traces of it ; and 
with the brand upon her shoulder ended the terrible 
account Her fault, at first, was but this, that she 
loved me too fondly, trusted me too foolishly. It was 
I who had wronged her, ruined her in return for that 
love. She had perished in the torrent of sin, carried 
from shame to shame, from despair to despair, sinking 
at last in a watery grave. The knowledge of it was 
as a fire consuming my heart 

I stood gazing, unable to turn away my eyes, 
though the sight should kill me. But suddenly I 
felt as if my soul were rent asunder ; light, as a 
bursting flame, flashed through me, leaving me 
trembling, a chill chasing the glow. A horrible 
thought had possessed me ! Those features — of 
whom did they remind me ? Fearful conviction, 
Martin resembled Annie — was as like her as a son 
may be like his mother ! Had not Martin’s mother, 
moreover, been a strolling actress, who had drowned 
herself? And Martin’s secret, — that secret which 
should make all p^ain between us — reconcile us, — 
was this it ? Yes, yes, I could not doubt ! 

Then Martin was her child — and mine ! And I 
had ruined not only her, but him, my child, my son ! 
This, then, was the reason why the boy had fascinated 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


197 


me so strangely. I had seen m.yself in him. That 
is why I had loved him — to passion almost — in spite 
of his wild and wayward temper ! This wild — 
ay, evil nature was my own. It was thus that God 
punished me in him. Is it not written that He 
visits the iniquity of the fathers upon the children 
unto the third and fourth generation ? It is terrible. 
And the worst is this — not the mother only, but my 
own child ! The night of madness is not known in 
hell, else that hour must have plunged me into it. 

But the doubt remained. I must have it solved 
at any cost. I hastened towards her. But she, at 
my first movement, lifted her eyes, saw me, and fled, 
horror winging her feet. She was gone. 

‘O for mountains to cover me, to hide me!* I 
wailed in anguish ; but there is no hiding in hell, 
not a corner where in unseen solitude one might 
wrestle with one’s grief. 

I have never yet succeeded in writing a letter at 
one sitting. I take pen and paper as the longing 
seizes me, and jot down what specially occupies my 
mind — the thoughts that assail it ; then turn away, 
to continue some other time at longer or shortet 
interval. I never write unless some inward neces- 
sity prompts me ; yet if I did not somehow court 
that necessity, I do not think I ever should write. 
This will partly explain why these letters are no 
continuous account, but broken pictures only — a 
true mirror of myself, who am but a wreck now, 
shattered and undone. 

I remember that of a’.l days I disliked Sunday 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


iq8 


most ; on that day I used to dine at my mother’s, 
and, what I thought worse, was expected to accom- 
pany her to church. I say worse, not because 1 
disliked hearing sermons, but because I was never 
sure that some word might not rouse unpleasant 
sensations within me, followed by thoughts which I 
preferred keeping in memory’s tomb, rather than let 
diem run riot with fear and regret. In the hubbub ol 
laily life it was easy to keep down serious thoughts ; 
out on Sundays and at church they would be heard, 
making me feel that I had missed my true destiny, 
that I was not what I should have been. What was 
the use of such thoughts, since no man can undo his 
past ? 

But worst of all were Communion Sundays, for 
my m»ther would have me attend. She was so very 
careful of proprieties, and I did not like to grieve 
her ; so I went, feeling all the time as though I were 
being dragged to the pillory. Bad as I was, I was 
no scoffer ; I felt there was something holy, and that 
I had no part in it. I would far rather not have 
partaken. The service was positively painful to me. 
I tried to go through it unconcerned ; but this was a 
case of the spirit being stronger than the flesh. I 
knew what I was about ! It took me several days 
to get over the uneasiness created in my mind ; J 
woulu shake off impressions — find myself again, as 1 
called it — in a whirl of amusement. 

The memory of one of these Sundays is present 
with me ; and why ? I see a slender girl in the 
bloom of youth, her beauty transfigured to something 
of unearthly lustre, uplifted to the spiritual. I see 
her ; the fair head drocping, the silky wealth of her 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


199 


nair falling about her as a veil. Heis is a higher 
loveliness than mere regularity of features, and there 
is that in her eye which keeps you a prisoner to 
something above, beyond. That deep gaze of hers 
is all worship, all adoration : ‘t is herself, her souL 
But there is more ; that smile of hers is as a ray of 
light ; you cannot tell whether it hovers on her lips 
merely or shines from her eyes ; it is there, as a beam 
from heaven lighting up her face. 

That was Lily in her sixteenth year ; she too is 
about to take the sacrament. She does not do so 
lightly — I judge from the blushes on her face, from 
the heaving of her tender form. Yes ; she too is 
uneasy, approaching tremblingly ; but how different 
from me ! It was her first communion. 

I had risen early against my wont ; the disquietude 
of my mind would not let me rest ; somehow my 
heart would beat. I set about dressing — what evil- 
doer was that looking at me from the glass ! I was 
quite unhinged, and hastened downstairs. In the 
breakfast -room I met Lily ; she was alone and 
rather pale. 

‘What is it, my child?’ I said ; ‘are you not 
well ?’ 

She smiled. Ah ! that smile, it used to be my 
heaven. But woe is me that I thought not of a 
higher heaven, for now I am left desolate of either. 

‘ Yes, quite well,’ she said gently. And she went 
to fetch my mother. 

I stood lost in thought. The evident emotion in 
which I had surprised her was a riddle to be solved. 
It was always a delight to me to try and understand 
Lily’s deepest being ; and the attempt at the present 


200 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


moment was doubly welcome. I preferred reading 
her heart to looking into mine. 

My eye presently fell upon a little book lying 
open on the table. I glanced at it, and lo ! it ex 
plained the mystery ! This is what I read : 

‘ In the sacrament of the Lord’s Table the Saviour 
gives Himself to the believing soul. It is a holy 
communion, blessed beyond utterance. The love of 
earthly bride and bridegroom is a poor human type. 
Christ is the heavenly Bridegroom, and the believer’s 
heart the bride. The love that unites them is un- 
speakable, filling the soul with a foretaste of heaven’s 
perfect bliss.’ 

Now I understood, or at least guessed, what was 
passing in Lily. Her soul was moved as the soul 
of a bride at the nearness of the bridegroom to whom 
she is willing to belong. She had always loved her 
Saviour, but a new love was upon her ; never had 
she been so happy, and never so full of disquietude. 
She longs for Him, but is afraid ; she stands trem- 
bling, yet knows she is safe with the lover of her 
soul, and to Him alone will she give herself. 

You have heard of the gardens of Jericho — at any 
late you have read of the lilies of the field, wLich toil 
not and do not spin, and yet are more beautiful than 
Solomon in his glory. 

Lily and I — we used to watch these lilies growl- 
ing in the valley of Jericho — Lily, the fairest of 
her sisters. She told me a story one evening as we 
walked amid the flowers. I never knew whence she 
had her stories. I often felt as though a Higher 
Being spoke through her, even God Himself, and I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


301 


would listen with a kind of devotion, never question- 
ing her words, as though they were a revelation. 
Even now her musical accents tremble in my ear, 
as I recall the story she then told me : 

‘A man lay dying. The world vanished from 
his sight, and he was left alone with the question, 
‘ Whither art thou going ?’ — that question filling him 
with fear and trembling. 

‘ He lay writhing on his bed of agony, when 
suddenly he beheld ten shapes closing him in, cold 
and pitiless — God’s holy commandments. And one 
after another they lifted up their voice. The first 
saying, “ Unhappy man, how many gods hast thou 
allowed to enter into thy sinful heart ?” The second, 
“ How many idols hast thou set up in His stead ?” 
The third, “ How often hast thou taken the name of 
the Lord thy God in vain ?” The fourth, “ How hast 
thou kept the Sabbath day, and caused others to 
keep it?” The fifth, “ How hast thou honoured thy 
father and mother, and those that were set in author- 
ity over thee ?” The sixth, “ How hast thou acted by 
thy brother, doing unto him as thou wouldst he should 
do unto thee ?” And on they went, the ten of them, 
each with the voice of judgment, confounding his soul. 

‘And the dying man, anguished and hopeless, 
had not a word to say. He felt convicted, and 
knew he was lost. At last he cried despairingly, 
“ I know I have sinned, but can you not leave me to 
die in peace ?” 

* And they made answer, “ We cannot leave thee 
unless One will take our place, to whom you shall 
yield yourself body and soul to all eternity, abiding 
by His judgme it. Will you do that?” 


202 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


* The sick man considered ; he was afraid of the 
One even, and his heart, beating feebly, shook with 
fear. Yet at last he said, “ I would rather have the 
One judge me, since I cannot answer you ten.” 

‘ And behold at his word the dread accusers van- 
ished, and there appeared in their stead One, holy 
and compassionate, just and forgiving. And the 
dying sinner looked to Him. Death had a hold of 
him already, but he felt the breath of life. He 
remembered all at once what in far-off days he had 
heard of One dying for many, recalling the holy 
lessons of his childhood at his mother’s knee, when 
she told him of the Lord that is mighty to save. He 
had forgotten it, living a life of folly and of sin ; but 
it was coming back to him even now. And looking 
again, behold he knew Him that stood by his side. 

‘ And faith gathered strength, a smile of blessed 
trust lighting up his face ; and with dying lips he 
cried : 

‘ “ Let me be thine. Lord, — thine only — now and 
for ever ! Have mercy on me, O Christ, and redeem 
my spirit !” 

‘ He sank in death, but peace had been given 
him.’ 


LETTER XVII. 


1 REMEMBFR times of true contrition n my life; not 
only when I felt cast down, but when I experienced 
also anguish of soul. The burden on my heart at 
such moments would almost crush me. I did see 
the nothingness and wretchedness of my pursuits; 
I felt I was on the road that would lead me to per- 
dition. I seemed to hear voices crying : ‘ Return — 
ah, return while yet it is time !’ And my soul made 
answer : ‘ I will return before it is too late.’ It was 
not too late while such promptings urged me. The 
deep unrest within was tending toward peace. I 
might have come forth a new creature from the con- 
flict had I but taken up the struggle with sincerity 
— but I did not ; weak endeavours at best were all. 
And sometimes when I could not but consider my 
sins moodily, even sorrowfully, thoughts of levity 
would dart through me, pushing aside the tender 
stirrings of life eternal ; and with renewed careless- 
ness I plunged deeper than before into the whirl of 
amusement. Indeed, from my own experience, and 
from what I have seen in others, I can testify to the 
awful truth that an evil spirit has power over human 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ao4 


souls. How often some one has formed the best of 
resolutions ; he has turned from sin, and is anxious 
to seek the way of life ; but the tempter enters his 
heart, and he falls deeper than before. 

And then to say there is no devil ! 

Devil ? Yes ; it is no use mincing an awful fact 
— it is he who drags man to hell. There is a devil, 
and the number of demons is legion. 

But, say you, how is it that God — the strong, 
righteous, pitiful God — allows the evil one such 
terrible power over human souls ? Can He be the 
all-loving, all-merciful Father, if He does not snatch 
them from the destroyer even at the moment of their 
weakness ? 

Do you doubt God, my friend ? Was it not He 
who sent His good angels to watch the door of your 
heart ; who put all that trouble and anguish into 
you ; who made you feel, and tremble at, the burden 
of your sin ? Ay, it is His Spirit who is at work in 
us when we feel we have done wrong ; when we 
long to rise to a better life. It is He who shows us 
that we can rise, if only we will ! 

But our will is at fault — our sincerity. That is 
it I What God does for us even at such decisive 
moments is immeasurably more than what the devil 
can do. But to God we listen not, great as His 
love is ; we care not for the riches of grace with 
which He tries to save us; whereas the devil need but 
pipe, and we straightway are ready to do his bidding. 

Is it to be mar\elled at that there is nothing left 
for us but to go to hell ? 

I have more to say ; but how shall I say it ? 
Will words not end in a wail of despair ? 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


1^5 


In those happy days when I had Lily by my 
side, I often gave myself up to the enchanting 
thought that she was the good angel of my life, sent 
by God’s infinite mercy, and that through her His 
love would lead me to heaven. That view of our 
relation was very sweet, and often filled me with 
the best of intentions. But if my heart was touched, 
it was but surface emotion ; I was willing enough to 
be led by Lily ; but I cared not to be led to God. 

Lily’s mission, then, failed of its object, and there 
was no help for me. 

Since I have come to this dreadful place my 
eyes have been opened to see that if I had yielded 
to the strivings of grace, and had given my heart to 
God, Lily would not have died in the flower of life ; 
that, on the contrary, God’s gift of happiness was 
coming to me through her. 

Even in those latter days, when the shadow of 
death was upon her — ay, and on me too, it would 
not have been too late. A voice now says ; Had 1 
repented of my evil course — had I turned to God 
even as a prodigal — grace was at hand, and my 
Lily would not have left me. Death would have 
been stayed, having done its work of rousing the 
sinner. God Himself would have given me Lily 
and the blessing of her love, and a new happy life 
might have followed. 

But no. God’s means of grace could not break 
down the wall I had built about my heart. I would 
not turn from sin. What could she do but die? 
There was no other way of saving her from a life 
with me — a life that would have wronged her lovely 
foul. Her puie-robed spirit must needs wing its 


LETTERS FROM HELI. 


ao6 


flight to heaven. Lily coa/d but die, and it was 
well that she died. 

Well for her 1 I say so with the honesty of de- 
spair. How I hate myself ! — ready to dash myselt 
to pieces, were it but possible. All is fraught with 
regret wherever I turn ; but this one thought that 
Lily was meant to be mine for a life of happiness is 
enough to turn all future existence into a hell of 
hells. God meant to bless me had He but found 
me worthy. Earth might have been heaven, and a 
better heaven to come ! Do you understand now 
what hell is, and the awful misery of its retribu- 
tion ? 

I have lately been to a ball. You know that 1 
have always been more or less of a ladies’ man ; but 
I did not frequent ball-rooms over long. I soon got 
tired of that sort of pleasure ; perhaps I was too 
heavy — too much of an athlete, to be famous for 
dancing. In early youth, however, I loved it passion- 
ately — forgetting everything, earth and heaven, in 
the whirl of an intoxicating waltz. 

But in my riper years I raised objections to 
dancing. I always looked at the aesthetic side of 
things. I began to urge the unbecomingness of 
going on dancing for ten, fifteen, years, or more. 
Let people dance for two or three years and be 
satisfied. The pleasure might be compared then to 
the fluttering of the butterfly amid the roses of 
spring ; there is fitness in that on first quitting the 
chrysalis of childhood. Let young people dance — 
becoming dances that is ! For them it is a natural 
and even beautiful pastime — an overflowing of the 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


20 ^ 


exuberance of life, and an innocent pleasure to theii 
untaught perception. 

However it was a grand ball which I visited 
lately, and most fashionably attended. The society, 
to be sure, was mixed, but that also gave a zest. 
The illumination was perfect, considering our state 
of light. For even with a thousand chandeliers we 
cannet rise above a crepuscule ; the tapers emit a 
false light only, making no impression whatever upon 
the reigning gloom. A good band was in attend- 
ance, but all their efforts produced no sound. Every- 
thing being illusive here, music naturally is left to 
imagination. One thinks one hears, and falls to 
dancing. 

The ladies were gorgeously attired in fashions 
representing several centuries ; it almost looked like 
a masquerade ; but these fair ones were only true, 
each to her time. And on the other hand, an 
attempt at masking would have been poor deception, 
since all their pomp and vanity was transparent ! 
Whatever their finery, you saw the unclothed woman 
beneath — some bewitchingly beautiful, others more 
like mummies than anything else. We marched 
round and round the spacious saloon, exchanging 
ladies at given times, so that one had the pleasure 
of touching hands with all the fair ones present, and 
Forming their acquaintance. 

What a surprise ! In my dining-room at home 
1 had a fine picture by a well-known artist. It 
represented a Roman beggar girl in life-size, three- 
quarter length. She is to be found in endless 
pictures, bearing dates from 1835-1842; for that 
she was in h’gh favour as a model need scarcely 


LETTERS FROU HELL. 


ao8 


be said. She was of true Roman blood, born at 
Trastevere — a fine type of Roman beiuty — her face 
and figure, her grace and bearing, being equally admir- 
able. And her rags, which she understood how to. 
arrange in a manner so truly picturesque, were 
scarcely less charming. Fashionable ladies, with all 
their getting up, looked poor and insipid by the side 
of that beggar girl ! And somehow she appeared 
proud of her rags, and would not have exchanged 
them for the most elegant attire ; for she knew that 
to them she owed half her attraction, her independ- 
ence and liberty besides. Paolina she was called ; 
but among the strangers at Rome she went by the 
name of la rema dei mendicandi, the beggar queen, or 
simply La Reina. Behold now the original of my 
picture — La Reina in person ! 

One evening, as I was walking through one of the 
more quiet streets of Rome, a young woman, hastening 
up behind me, caught my arm tremblingly, imploring 
me to protect her. It was La Reina. Of course I 
did protect her, seeing her home ; arm in arm we 
went through the ill -lit streets, and friendliness 
seemed natural. I was ungenerous enough to pay 
court to her. But I did not know La Reina. 
Firmly, though gently, she refused me. And then, 
with a candour found in Italy only, she explained to 
me her position. She was happy now, she said — very 
happy. Most people treated her kindly, no one ^arcd 
think ill of her, and she was free as the bird in the 
air. But if she yielded, all that would be lost, and 
she would sink to the level of the common street-girl. 
So long as she could wear her rags with honour, she 
would not exchange them for the /elvet and gold of 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


300 


a princess. More than this even she told me, though 
without mentioning names ; she had had the most 
enticing offers, but — sia benito Iddio — she had re- 
fused them all Arrived at her humble dwelling, she 
kissed me wit^ a frank trustfulness, as a child might, 
and we parted. I subsequently had her painted. 

After some years La Reina suddenly vanished. 
She had risen, as she said, above many a temptation 
— the proud beggar girl ; but of one thing she had 
not thought, the possibility of love ! Heaven seemed 
open ; she loved, she yielded — and happiness was 
gone. In her rags she had been a queen — in silks 
and jewels she was but a slave. And worse was at 
hand. She was betrayed, and cruelly disillusioned. 
Then all the natural gentleness of her disposition 
forsook her ; a demon awoke instead, not shrinking 
even from vulgar crime. She thirsted for revenge. 
She was still a marvel of beauty, no longer gracious, 
but majestic. With an icy heart, yet burning in 
vindictiveness, she gathered her skirts about her, 
succeeding presently in making a fool of an old 
rake of a prince. For a moment only she stood at 
the height of splendour, meteorlike, but long enough 
to obtain the satisfaction she craved. With a crash 
it ended, and she never rose again. 

Now she was once more beside me, resting her arm 
in mine; but what a difference between the present 
moment and that far-off evening when I escorted her 
through the dusky streets of Rome. I had recognised 
her on the spot, and yet how she w’as changed ! 
Involuntarily my feelings shaped themselves to a 
sigh. There is no happiness but that of innocence 
after all ! But when I bent to her, whispering, * La 

14 


f lO 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Reina / Sta senipre in ricorda7iza /’ she answered 
with trembling haste, as though overcome with the 
recollection, * O state zitto^ zitto / NeW inferno tutf t 
finito / La gioja^ V incur anza Vamor V la speranza /' 

As I was about to quit the ball, I was stopped 
by a man, to all appearance a roii^ of the first order, 
addressing me somewhat flippantly : * I see you are 
at home in this sort of thing ; but have you assisted 
at the ball ? That is quite another affair, rendering 
all this stupid and tame ; it will come round again 
presently !’ 

I did not understand his hint, nor did I care 
to ask for an explanation. But I was to find out 
before long. 

For as the time draws near when utter darkness 
sinks upon hell, a madness of dissipation possesses 
the fashionable — a straining of all efforts to make the 
most of the respite, as it were. This rage of amuse- 
ment is vanity, like everything, and fruitful of pain 
only. But, nevertheless, the greed of pleasure 
abounds — plays, orgies, and immodest pastimes 
succeeding one another in a perfect whirl ; all is 
forgotten, save one thing, intoxicating and stunning 
the senses. Nothing so wild, so frantic, so shame- 
less, but it is had recourse to at this period ; and 
he who most successfully throws off restraint is 
the hero of the day. That well-bred society with 
difficulty preserves its reputation, you may imagine ; 
for none so well-bred but they yield to the contagion 
of the ball. They only try to preserve appearances, 
that is all ! 

There is something remarkably like it upon 
earth — I mean the revelry before Lent The 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


21 


season of dead darkness is our Lent, but alas it 
leads to no Easter beyond ! The devil surely has 
raised up that porch by which men enter upon a 
solemn time — the carnival of fools ; here then we 
have it to perfection, winding up with the ball. 

And what is it like, this ball ? — beginning in 
propriety of course, the ladies all smiles, the men 
pictures of ease. The dancing at first is most 
orderly, following a gently-swelling rhythm, but as 
a rising sea is its excitement. Look at their eyes 
— at the panting mouth half-open ! More tightly 
they clutch one another. . . . 

Dead darkness is at hand ; they heed it not in 
maddened whirl. Voluptuousness is all but one; 
with torment ; they dance as though a taskmaster 
drove them on to it — the taskmaster of sin. The 
greed is theirs — satisfaction alone is withheld. 

See the fair ones bereft of beauty, the gracious 
garments draggled and soiled ! Is there a more 
awful sight than unwomanly woman, hollow-eyed, 
corpse - complexioned, with dishevelled hair and 
tattered clothes ? As for men — the wild beast 
nature is upon them. 

It is a mercy that darkness in the end envelops 
it all — falling suddenly — and covering, like the 
deluge of yore, what is only fit to be covered. See 
the end of pleasure unsanctified ! The night of 
death engulfs them, and what then ? — what then ? 


LETTER XVIIl, 


You are aware no doubt, and have experienced it 
yourself, that the perfume of a flower will wake 
memories — sweet happy feelings especially ; but 
slumbering passions also obey the call. If on earth 
this may mean a kind of agonising delight, here it 
is hell ! 

Do not imagine that there are flowers in this 
place ; there are none here — none whatever — no 
growth of any kind. Even faded flowers are of the 
earth. O foolish men ! yours is a flower-yielding 
world, and you will not see that, with all its trouble 
and sorrow, it is a blessed abode ! It is the exceed- 
ing love of your Father in heaven, overflowing con- 
tinually, which creates the flowers. Those millions 
of perfumed blossoms are the vouchers of love eternal 
— the sparkling pearls of the cup which runneth over, 
given by God to man. 

Flowers below and stars above — happy are ye 
who yet walk in life. But you follow your path, 
heedless of flowers and heedless of stars, engrossed 
with your paltry self and its too often worthless con- 
cerns. O foolish men 1 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


213 


No, there is no blossoming here ; but it is part 
of our torment to be haunted occasionally by the 
far - off perfume of some flower. Imagination .of 
course, but all the more potent is the effect. The 
sweet incense has power to call up, not feelings 
merely, but visions on which we love to dwell — the 
spell of vanished enjoyment. Can you conceive it : 
the fulness of past delight returning upon you as by 
magic, yourself being a prey to death and boundless 
misery ? 

It may be a rich carnation. The fragrance even 
now will speak to me of her who wore it, and of her 
glowing eyes. I succeeded at last in being alone 
with her. She was divided between love and anger, 
I kneeling at her feet. 

Or a jasmine of intoxicating richness. In a 
summer-house, overhung with the sweet - scented 
shrub, I found the fair- haired beauty. My heart 
was full, and I longed to clasp her, to be drowned 
in the depth of her sea-blue eyes. I was spellbound, 
the dreamy influence of the flowers stealing through 
the noontide sun. 

Or again, a luscious heliotrope We were alone 
in the garden on a summer eve, a balmy twilight 
about us. I was to leave her the following morning; 
she being tied by ungenial wedlock. Her beauty 
was rich as the southern clime ; her dark eyes 
mournful, but owning a wondrous charm ; her smile 
the saddest I ever knew. She plucked one of the 
flowers that steeped the night with fragrance and 
gave it me — calling me her truest friend. But I, 
enraptured, would fain have bound her by another 
name ! 


*14 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Such is the language of flowers to me, coming on 
the waves of their perfume ; and the sweeter such 
memories, the more cruelly they torture the mind, 
raising passion to madness, although we are un- 
clothed of all bodily sense, and there is no healing 
for the suffering soul. 

It is only the strong-scented flowers that move 
me so powerfully ; their gentler sisters, the violet and 
heartsease, touch me not. Yet one I may except — 
an only one ; it also brings pain, but I bless it. I 
have often been followed of late by tender wafts as 
from a rose. It is a particular rose, and I see it even 
now. A most delicate blush suffuses its petals ; what 
colour there is might be called an ethereal glow at 
its heart ; to the cursory glance it is white, but I 
know better. Lily once gave me that rose ; that is, 

I asked her for. it ; I do not suppose she would have 
thought of giving it to me of her own accord. It 
was at Venice one day; we were at St. Mark’s, stand- 
ing in front of that altar sacred to the Madonna, 
with its famous Byzantine paintings. We were 
alone ; a crippled beggar had just limped away, , 
having called down ‘ Our Lady’s ’ blessing upon us. 

A holy feeling stole over me — holy perhaps because 
the cripple had called Lily la sua sposa. She had 
not heard it, or had not understood it. There she 
stood with the rose in her hand — the blushing flower 
being a sweet image of herself. 

‘ Give me that rose, Lily I ’ I said ; and she handed 
it at once, innocently. \ 

‘ Kiss it first,’ I said ^ 

She did so, and handed it back again w'th the | 
most charming of smiles. I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


215 


I took it, kissing it in my turn. Lily blushed 
slightly, but not comprehending in her simplicity 
what that little ceremony might be meant for. The 
perfume of this very rose has been coming to me of 
late. It seems strange. Is it possible, after all, that 
there is a kind of spiritual bond between blessed 
souls and the lost ones here, immaterial as the breath 
of a flower ? O happy thought, let me hold it fast 
. . . alas it has vanished . , . transient as the wafted 
odour itself ! 

That sublime moment when the glory of Paradise 
will break through the night cannot be far now ; 
it is coming, coming ! I shall behold her again, and 
though it be a pang of ten thousand sorrows I 
care not. I shall see her in heavenly beauty ; . . . 
but oh, the darkness that will follow ! Yet come 
what may, her picture will not quit me. ... I see 
it — shall always see it — radiant in bliss, though I be 
in the depth of hell. Can it be utter damnation if 
God leaves me that much of communion with one 
of His blessed saints? I know, I feel, that she 
is thinking of me as I think of her — loving me, 
though it be with the love of a sister. What shall 
I say — dare I say it ? Could God be a Father if 
llie sister is in heaven, and the brother for ever lost 
in hell ? , , 

I went to church the other day, not for the first 
time ; but I have refrained from speaking about it 
hitherto for very shame’s sake. Indeed, I would 
rather have kept away altogether, but one is forced to 
do a great deal here one would prefer to leave alone. 

Be it known, then, that hell is not without a 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


2ld 


church establishment. We have everything, you see^ 
yet nothing — nothing ! You will understand, I can- 
not be speaking of the Church, in the true meaning 
of the word, that is why I add establishment — dis- 
establishment would be as good a term — and of 
course there is no such thing as a worshipping con- 
gregation here, or anything like divine service. I 
can only say we go to church. Good heavens, what 
a farce ! 

There are about as many churches here as there 
are reverend gentlemen, and that is saying a good 
deal ! All false and faithless ecclesiastics — all who, 
for the sake of a good living or other worldly advan- 
tage, have sinned against the gospel — all hirelings 
wronging the Lord’s sheep — are gathered here. 
Now they are eaten up with a burning zeal for the 
gospel which once they slighted, but that gospel is 
far from them ; they are devoured now with love for 
the sheep, but there are no sheep to be tended. They 
build churches upon churches, preaching morning, 
noon, and night ; but never a word of God’s passes 
their lips If the word of grace were yet within 
their reach, they and their listeners might be saved. 
But their stewardship is over and the mysteries are 
taken from them. Yet are they driven — driven to 
preach, for ever seeking the one pearl they so griev- 
ously neglected. 

And so are the people — seeking I mean — but 
not finding. Hell is full of professing Christians. 
This may sound strange, but it is true nevertheless, 
since all the thousands are here to whom Christianity 
in life was but an outward thing — a habit, or even 
a mask, hiding an unconverted heart ; all those 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ii7 


who, having heard the message of salvation, listened 
to it complacently, but never strove to make sure 
of it for themselves — merely playing with God’s 
truth, as it were, falling away in the time of tempta- 
tion. They are hungering and thirsting now for 
the word once despised, but it is passed away for 
ever. They know it, for some of them have been 
at their hopeless endeavour for years and centuries 
now ; but they cannot resist flocking to the would- 
be churches, listening anxiously to ministers that 
cannot minister. 

The churches consequently are full to overflowing, 
but you always find room ; for a spirit, a shade, can 
squeeze in anywhere. There is no need, therefore, 
to take a pew, or pay for it either, as you do upon 
earth, where the rich command the best places, be it 
at the theatre or at the church. That is one advan- 
tage we have over you. 

At an evening party the other day I met a certain 

Rev. Mr. T . I had nearly given his name, but 

that is against my principles. Who should he be 
but an old acquaintance of former years I I remem- 
ber him well, a fashionable parson of the kind the 
world approves of — gentlemanly and easy-going in 
word and deed. Shaking hands on leaving, he said 
lightly : ‘ I shall be glad to preach to you if you’ll 
come. I have built a church in Sensuality Square 
— queer name, ain’t it ? — anybody can show you the 
way — just at the top of Infirmity Street. I’ve con- 
cocted a grand sermon for next Sunday ; you’d 
better come.’ What could I do but go. I might as 
well listen to my old acquaintance as to any other 
pretender of the cloth 


ii8 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I found the church in the Square indicated. 1 
was late, coming in upon the singing ; but, ye angels, 
what singing ! Instead of saintly hymns, the most 
horrible songs I ever heard — the natural utterance of 
the people’s own thoughts. The congregation was 
exceedingly fashionable, of irreproachable attitude 
But old men, apparently crowned with honour — 
young women, wearing innocence as a garment 
— joined in that shameless performance. Parents 
encouraged their children, husbands their wives, 
unabashed. Alas ! and no sooner had I entered, 
than I was no better than the rest ; having come to 
sing praises, my evil thoughts bubbled over, and I 
desecrated good intention with ribald song. 

It ceased. The parson appeared in his pulpit 
with an assumption of sanctity quite edifying — but 
fora moment only, then his beautiful expression gave 
way to a deplorable grin. It was with difficulty 
apparently that he reined in his feelings, and looked 
serious and sanctimonious again as he began : 

‘ My worshipping friends . . .* a proper begin- 
ning, no doubt, and I am sure he meant his very 
best — proceeding vigorously for quite half an hour, 
I should say, opening and shutting his mouth with 
the most frightful grimaces, though never a word 
came forth. He seemed to be aware of it and made 
desperate efforts at eloquence ; presently he began 
again : 

* My worshipping friends . . . and now he ap- 
peared to be in high water, dashing and splashing 
and floundering along, quite drenching the congrega- 
tion with his fluency ; but never a thought he gave 
them, and the most shallow of his listeners resented 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


219 


it presently. He was just winding up his rhetoric 
when there was an outburst of laughter ; he stopped 
short, open-mouthed, and, like a poodle that had 
had a ducking, shamefacedly slunk down his pulpit 
stair. 

I could tell more, but let me cast a veil over it. 
I left the place heavy-hearted. 

Is there anything worse than to pretend tc be 
living, being dead — dead I 


LETTER XIX. 


The sweeter memories are in themselves, the greatei 
their bitterness in hell, is it not strange ? nay, it is 
dreadful. I am a prey to despair, not that despair 
which finds an outlet in raving madness — there is 
life in that — but a kind of apathy which is the sister 
of death. Despair is one’s daily bread here ; it is 
in us, it is about us. 

Absorbed at times — closing my eyes I had almost 
said, but it is no use doing that here — withdrawing 
within myself, however, I have the strangest fancies 
and imaginings. 

The other day I believed myself carried away 
into a wood. It was one of those wondrous May- 
days when spring bursts to life not only in nature, 
but in the heart as well. But the delights of spring 
are never so pure, the human soul is never so uplifted, 
as in some genial forest-glade. 

The joyful carols of the feathered songsters found 
an echo in my heart ; I felt ready to joir in their 
thanksgiving. The rich fragrance of the wood was 
about me, sinking into my soul, when suddenly 1 
heard Lily’s voice somewhere between the trees. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


221 


I started — shaken out of my dreamful delight 
O cruelty — where am I ? There are no birds here, 
no woodland enchantment, no love that might call 1 

We had taken a house one summer amid the 
scenery of the lake country. There were splendid 
woods about us. My mother had provided herself 
with companionship, so that I could follow my own 
bent whenever I chose. 

Often in the early morning I would take Lily 
for a row, landing now here, now there, to spend the 
day, gipsy-fashion, amid the woody glens. I delighted 
at such times in having escaped from the world and 
its pleasures; what sort of renunciation that was you 
will readily understand. I was nowise prepared to 
give up the world in order to gain heaven. I merely 
felt nauseated with the excess, young as I was, and 
glad to turn my back upon it for a time ; but not 
longing for anything better or higher. 

Lily too delighted in burying herself in nature, 
as she called it. And aimlessly we would wander 
about the livelong day, stopping where the fancy 
took us, and proceeding again to look for other spots 
of enchantment. Now and then we would come 
upon a hut where frugal fare was obtainable ; or 
we took with us what might satisfy simple need. 
Let us live like children of the wood, we said, and 
did so. 

Lily might be about twelve .years at the time. 
My mother rather objected to our uncivilised roam- 
ings ; but meeting my opposition, she contented 
herself with the final injunction, ‘ See that Lily does 
not get too wild. Wild, sweet dove I — how should she? 


222 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Lily’s company was as refreshing to me as the 
dewy fragrance of the landscape. In those genial 
days the graciousness of her being unfolded, and 
I felt a child with her. How she could laugh 
and chatter, delight in a nothing, and call up 
the echoes ! How easy and free and charming 
was her every movement ! She must look int'j 
everything, peeping now here, new the.'e, finding 
surprises everywhere. Hers was a marvellous gift 
of understanding the little mysteries of nature. 
The least and most hidden escaped not her notice 
Where others passed heedless, she perceived wonders. 
It seemed as if nature delighted in opening her secret 
beauty to the pure -eyed child. The nimble deer 
came forth from the cover and looked at her with 
trustful gaze — turning and looking again, as though 
inviting her to follow. The sly fox would quit his 
lair, seeking mice and beetles for his supper, un- 
troubled by her presence, but giving her a furtive 
squint now and then, as if to keep her in sight. The 
birds chirped at her merrily, or, half hiding in the 
leafy bowers, warbled down upon her their most 
gleeful song — others running along the lichened boles, 
as if to show off their special art. The little squirrels, 
hopping from bough to bough, would follow her about 
the wood. Rare plants and flowers seemed to grow 
beneath her footstep ; they were there at least when- 
ever she looked for them. Everything enchanting 
her added to her charms ; as the fairy of the place 
she appeared in her sylphlike loveliness, with those 
eyes that welled over with a light touched by sadness, 
and that smile that spoke of sunbeams sparkling 
through raia 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


233 


We would camp beneath some tree at times, 
gathering sticks and fir-cones for a fire, by way of 
pi sparing for a meal. This done, I would leave 
Lily to her own devices, and how proud she was of 
her assumed dignity ! We quite feasted on such 
occasions ; never did I enjoy grandest dinner more. 
T would call her my little wife, as I watched her busy 
contrivances, and truly all those nameless graces were 
hers with which tenderest woman will flit round the 
object of her care. 

Having enjoyed our gipsy meal, she would read 
to me, and sometimes I yielded to courting sleep ; 
then she would watch by me, keeping the buzzing 
flies from disturbing my slumbers ; and on waking, 
the first thing I grew conscious of were those radiant 
stars — her faithful eyes. 

At other times I would read by myself, or pre- 
tend to read, listening to that mysterious rustle in 
the tree-tops which is as of distant water, and to the 
many sounds that break upon the stillness of the 
wood, making it more solemn by contrast. Lily then 
would roam about by herself, never unoccupied. 
Innumerable were the wreaths she made and the 
nosegays she gathered ; or she would return rich 
with spoils, bringing leaves full of berries, red and 
ripe. But she never was out of the reach of my 
voice. Life seemed a perfect idyl. 

Cne day — we were just sa}’ing that we ought to 
knov the woods by heart now — having gone rathei 
farther than usual, we came upon a little house I had 
cause to remember, though I had chosen to forget 
it, covered with clematis and roses, — the charming 
lodge v’here I had met Annie. I started, horror- 


224 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


struck, trembling, and no doubt white as death 
frightening poor little Lily dreadfully. She anxi 
ously inquired what ailed me ; but not till some 
minutes had elapsed had I recovered sufficiently to 
pretend to answer her questions, dragging her away 
with me hastily. What explanation I gave her I 
know not ; I only remember that all that day I 
could not look her in the eyes again. How she 
pained me with her tender inquiries, her loving sym- 
pathy — little guessing, poor child, what a frightful 
memory she kept hovering about in her innocence — 
little thinking that the self-same demon that betrayed 
Annie in a measure was threatening her, and that I, 
her friend, her only companion, was both master and 
slave of that demon ! 

We continued our roamings, extending them 
farther still — for I could not rest — but delight there 
was none. Poor little Lily, she had set out full of 
hopes of pleasure, and found nothing but dulness 
and dispiritedness ; she was ready to sink with fatigue, 
but I saw it not. 

Toward evening a storm broke, and as we neared 
the lake we found it one seething mass of boiling 
waters. I dared not risk the child in the boat, so 
nothing remained but to follow the path by the 
shore, the distance to the house, fortunately, not 
being beyond possibilities. But Lily was tired out. 
The storm spirit flapped his angry wings about us. 
I wrapped her in a cloak, saying I wculd carry her 
home. She assured me she was able to walk ; but 
no, I would carry her. 

And how light was the burden ! how doubly 
dear ! I felt as if 1 could walk on thus to the endi 


LETTERS FROM HELI. 


225 


of the world. Holding her close I went on steadily, 
having a couple of miles before me. The stormy 
clouds were driving overhead, the rain kept beating 
about me ; but I cared not, meeting force with force. 
How touching was Lily’s anxiety lest she should 
prove troublesome ; and, finding that I was fully bent 
on carrying her home, how sweetly she would set her- 
self to repay me, whispering words of loving grati- 
tude, as if thereby to lessen the burden ! I almost 
forgot Annie for present enchantment. But even at 
that time I could not shut out profaning fancy ; my 
thoughts before long reverted to the carrying off of 
the Sabines in the Loggia dei Lanzi at Florence. 
I was ashamed of the comparison, and tried to turn 
from it by an effort of will ; so, partly to punish 
myself for the unworthy image, partly also to amuse 
Lily, I called up another picture, which, I hoped, 
was more in harmony with the occasion — the story 
of Christophorus carrying the Holy Child. I told 
Lily the legend of the powerful heathen who, con- 
scious of his strength, would serve none but the 
greatest, and who, from kings and emperors, was 
directed at last to Christ crucified. Seeking for 
Him vainly the world over, he dwelt at last by the 
side of a tempestuous torrent, satisfied to carry pil- 
grims across. Years had passed, when one night 
he heard the calling of a child, and lifted it upon his 
mighty shoulder, the burden growing and growing 
till he nearly broke down in the river. Yet, reaching 
the other shore, the wonderful child said to the hoary 
giant : * Thou shalt be called Christophorus, for thou 
hast b)rne thy Lord !’ And the heathen knew Him 
and suffered h»mself to be baptized. 

15 


226 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


My story had rocked Lily to sleep. Her arm 
was about my neck, her warm cheek resting against 
mine. In silence I walked along. 

But the legend had left an impression on my own 
Heart. The figure of the Saviour had risen before 
me ; I seemed conscious of His holy presence. I 
had not thought of Him for many a day. But buried 
out of sight though the faith of childhood was, it had ^ 
not yet died ; it was welling up even now from the 
dark depth of my heart, followed by recollections, I 
some bitter, some sweet — the bitter ones abounding, 
hiding their head in shame. What a weight of sin 
had I not heaped upon me in the few years of life I 
called mine. And the deepest guilt of all was that 
against Annie. 

The sleeping child grew heavier and heavier ; but 
I seemed bearing a burden of sin. 

With uncertain footstep I staggered onward j 
through the darksome night. The storm increased, J 
lashing the waves and hurling them in masses of 1 
curdled foam against the rocky shore. More than ^ 
once I felt water about my feet, as though the I 
maddened lake had risen to drag me down. But on I 
I went, heaving and panting, the cold dews breaking 
from every pore. It was not so much the physical 
powers, as the strength of soul giving vay. I 
experienced a weight of wretchedness never known 
before. Tortured by regret and fear — by an utter 
:ontempt, moreover, of self — I had reached fcr once 
a frame of mind that might enable me to turn upon 
the miserable I, and become a new creature perchance. 
Who knows but that I was near the blessed victory, 
when lo I there was the light fi om my mother’s 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


227 


window appearing through the darkness and dispel- 
ling my thoughts. It was all gone — grief and regret 
and emotion. Would that the house had been a little 
farther, and the time gained might have defrauded 
hell of its prey ! 

Cold and shivering I entered the well-lit room, 
leaving outside the chastened feelings that had come 
to me in the troubled night. And finding myself 
once more in the cosy chamber, I breathed with a 
great sense of relief. 

And now Lily was waking from her sleep. 
‘What a beautiful dream !’ she whispered, with half 
opening eyes, as I dropped a kiss on her forehead by 
way of bidding her good-night They were carrying 
her off to bed. 

The following morning she told me her dream : 

‘ I thought I was standing by the side of a river. 
And presently I saw St Christophorus coming 
towards me with the Christ-Child upon his shoulder. 
He stopped, and the Child sat down by me ; we 
played with grasses and flowers, singing songs, and 
I felt very happy. But the big Christophorus looked 
down upon us, leaning on his staff. 

‘ We twined the flowers into wreaths, but the 
Child could do more than I. It made a cross, and 
then a crown of thorns, putting that upon His temples. 
There were tiny red flowers between the stalks, 
hanging loosely over the forehead, and reminding 
one of drops of blood. And presently the Christ- 
Child said : “We will think of something else; look 
me in the face — what is it you see?” I looked and 
seemed to behold, firstly, the Sower that went forth 
to sow; then the good Samaritan, and it was as 


228 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


though I heard Him speak. And next I saw the 
Good Shepherd carrying the lamb in His bosom I 
dare say I might have seen more had not a question 
come to me. “Is it true,” I asked, “ that men could 
be so wicked as to hang Thee upon the Cross, pierc- 
ing Thy side. with a spear?” 

* “ Yes,” said the Christ, “ see here My hands, 
and see My side !” The marks were red as blood, 
and I cried bitterly. * “ Weep not, little Lily,” said 
He ; “ I do not feel it now ; the love of my Father 
in heaven, and the love of my brothers and sisters 
upon earth, have made up for it long ago.” 

‘We had been silent awhile, when the Christ- 
Child resumed : “ Would you not like to be carried 
a little by this kind Christophorus ? he docs it so 
gently. Where would you like him to take you ?” 

‘ “ Well,” I said, scarcely considering, “ I always 
had a longing for the Holy Land. But that is 
a long way off, and I should have to leave Thee 
here.” 

* “ No, Lily, it is not nearly so far as you think,” 
replied the Christ, “ and you and I will never part. 
You will find me there if you like to go.” 

‘ I rose, and Christophorus took me upon his 
shoulder, carrying me far, far away. By day he 
followed a bright red cloud, by night a shining star. 
It was the star of Bethlehem. Through many lands 
we went, hearing tongues I understood not, passing 
mountains and rivers and lakes, and going over the 
great sea at last. There was no land to be seen 
now, and the v’aves rose high as mountains I 
grew afraid lest we should never get through. But 
good Christophorus said : “ Fear not, little child ; I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


229 


have borne my dear Lord Christ ; I shall not fail to 
carry thee.” 

‘ And after many days we reached the other shore 
— it was the Holy Land. On he walked, with his 
staff in his hand and me upon his shoulder, past 
Jerusalem, the white walls of which lay sparkling 
in the sunshine — the royal city looking as beautiful 
as ever she could have been in the days of yore. 
Farther still — not far — and he stopped in a little 
town nestling amid her hills. Here the star stoa:i 
still. It was Bethlehem. 

* Christophorus put me down before a humble 
inn. 

‘ The door opened, and, behold, the Holy Child 
was there, taking me by the hand and leading me 
in. “ There is only a manger here, little Lily, to 
make thee welcome. But one day, when thou art 
weary of life, I will take thee to a mansion above.” 

‘And the Christ -Child drew me close — oh so 
lovingly — close, quite close, and kissed me. . . . 

‘ I awoke ; we had just reached home. Ah, 
Philip, I would have liked to go on dreaming for 
ever ! ’ 

‘ Well, little sister,’ I said gaily, ‘ I think you 
might be satisfied. Haven’t you been to Bethlehem 
and back, and seen no end of wonders in one short 
hour? What could you expect more?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘you are right. I 
ojght to be satisfied till Christ bids me welcome in 
His mansion above.* 


LETTER XX. 


I HAD been seeking for Annie too long already, not 
to have all but given up the hope of ever meeting | 
her again. She seemed utterly vanished. But hell < 
is large, and its inhabitants are not to be numbered. ■ 
Inquiry for her quite unsettled my mode of life. 

I was but a vagabond, travelling hither and thither, 
driven onward by a gnawing need. There was a 
fire within me, and I thirsted ; living man — no, not 
the parched wanderer in the desert ever knew such 
agony — thirsted for Annie, though I knew she was 
but as a broken cistern that can hold no water, ^ 
and unable, therefore, to soothe my pain. She had 
lost that privilege of womanhood in life even — how > 

much more so in hell. No; Annie could not quench ) 
my thirst. In vain she keeps wringing her garments, 
her once glorious hair ; it is wet and dripping, 
though never a drop of water she wrings out of it 
But she carries that about with her which would 
solve a terrible mystery. That is why I am driven to 
seek her — thinking and dreaming of her as I once did 
in life, when the red glow coursed through my veins, 
and I saw in her but a flower in the vast realm of 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


231 


nature, unfolding her beauty for my selfish delight 
But how different now ! It was not love thatdrew me — 
but the dread longing to read in her face concerning 
that awful likeness, which had flashed through my 
conscience on meeting her before. It was more than 
a presentiment then — it seemed an assurance ; still 
I wanted proof to determine between doubt and 
certainty. She — she alone could be the witness that 
sealed my guilt. Her features had spoken ; but by her 
mouth alone could I finally be convicted. Yet, even 
though I found her, could I hope to hear her voice ? 
My heart misgave me — but endeavour to find her I 
must. 

At last, after many days, the desire seemed 
realised. I came upon her sitting by the river, 
motionless, and gazing into the turbid flow, as though 
about to seek death in its embrace. Hell, aftei 
all, at times offers what is akin to satisfaction : for 
a moment I forgot self and everything be.®ide me, 
anxious only to approach her. As a gliding shadow 
I moved forward, scarcely to be distinguished from 
the crawling mists that haunt those banks of dark- 
ness. 

I was able to watch her leisurely, though in 
fevered anguish and with trembling soul, examining 
her countenance and questioning her everj' feature. 
It was all pain and suffering to me ; but I forced 
myself to the task, and the result was utterly start- 
ling, an effort of the will only keeping me from 
jumping to my feet. How could I have believed 
Martin to be her very image ! There was a likeness 
certainly, but not more than might be merely casual 

It was the first time that I experienced anything 


132 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


like relief in hell — strange that it came to me by the 
side of that ominous river ! A feeling of comfort all 
but superseded the pain of inquiry. 

My eyes devouring her greedily, yielded con- 
viction No — hers was no likeness to Martin that 
need trouble me. But there was a likeness — to 
whofti ? 

My satisfaction was shortlived, alas ! A new 
horror laid hold of me, clutching my eveiy fibre. 
What could it be ? Doubt pursued by certainty 
darting through me — I saw it — Yes! Yes I Annie 
was not like Martin ; she was like that girl loved by 
Martin, who had been the last object of my earthly 
desires, — whom I had lifted from poverty, but who had 
preferred poverty with Martin to a palace with me ! 

It must be so — the more I gazed the more certain 
I seemed. This then was Martin’s secret that should 
have made all straight between us — that girl my 
daughter, and he, Martin, my son ! 

I shook with horror ; again the words kept ring- 
ing in my brain that the sins of the fathers .shall be 
visited upon the children. That girl my chil i I So 
near had I been to commit a crime at which vice 
itself shrinks back appalled. My own daughter 1 
Oh heavens of mercy, where indeed shall the conse- 
quences of sin find their limit ? 

Unutterable anguish laid hold of me. There she 
sat, pale, gloomy — a very image of pitiless fate. A 
few w'ords of hers would have sufficed to dispel the 
misery of suspecting doubt. 

But not a word she had for me ; her soul and 
mine were utterly apart. The time was when she 
folic wed me, though I took her to the road of helL 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


*33 


Now she turned from me, and had I been able to 
show her the way to Paradise, I believe she would 
have spurned me with loathing. 

My life seems one mass of darkness, but I see in- 
numerable lights — some heavenly, some earthly — 
illumining the gloom. It is more especially the 
countless proofs of God’s fatherly goodness I call to 
mind ; like stars I see them shining through the 
night of my sinful folly. 

I see now how often God was near me, how often 
His hand was upon me to stop me in the downward 
course ; to warn me, move me, draw me to Him in 
unutterable mercy. How tender, how faithful, how 
long-suffering was He in His dealings with me, fol- 
lowing me in pity all the days of my life — as, indeed. 
He follows all men. Oh, think of it my brothers, 
my sisters, ye, whose eyes are not yet closed in death. 
He is following you, loving you daily, continually ! 
But I spurned the touch of that hand, not caring for 
His love, and I am lost now, having my portion with 
the ungodly in the place of wailing and gnashing of 
teeth. 

I could not but be moved sometimes. The hand 
reaching down from heaven was too plainly to be 
felt ; the blessings it spread about my path were too 
great for even me to disregard them. There were 
times when I felt I ought to kiss that hand of mercy, 
pouring out tears of repentant gratitude. My heart 
would be softened and stirred to the depth. If sor- 
row for sin was weak, yet resolutions to mend my ways 
seemed strong, and I believed I should never again 
forget hov good the Lord had been. 


*34 


LETTERS FROM HEIU 


But forget I did, losing sight of everything --love, 
gratitude, benefit, and resolve — ay, of God Hcmself! 
Nor, was it mere forgetting — no, I cared not to re* 
member ; turning away so fully, that when trouble 
once more overtook me, I never even thought of 
Him who had helped me and pitied me before. 

Yes, let me confess it loudly, it is not the fault of 
God that I did not come forth from earth’s besetting 
dangers a redeemed and blessed soul ! 

The parable of the Good Shepherd giving His life 
for the sheep, how simple it is, and how it speaks to 
the heart ? And that love is not only for the flock as a 
whole, but for each individual sheep — ever leaving 
the ninety and nine to go after that which is gone 
astray. And how tenderly will He seek for it, and, 
if so be that He find it, carry it home rejoicing I 

Yes, I feel it now, if I did not feel it then, that 
all through my sinful life there was One seeking me 
in sorrow and in hope, ay — and finding me again and 
again 1 But I would not stay in the fold, preferring 
my own dark ways to His watchful guidance. I 
would not, and lo, I am lost ! 

I never was visited by serious illness after that first 
trouble at the outset of manhood till the days of my final 
agony ; but I once suffered from inflammation of the 
eyes, which necessitated my abiding for several weeks 
in a darkened room. That was a time of misery — 
not merely a trial to patience, but simply awful I 
gained a pretty clear idea of the signal punishment 
inflicted by the solitary-confinement system in prisons 
To a heart burdened with evil recollections there can 
be no greater misery than solitude. Days and nights 
were crawling past alike in gloom ; and it seemed to 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


235 


me not only that darkness itself increased, but that 
I was engulfed by it more and more. And yet that 
darkness was but a feeble foretaste of the night en- 
closing me here ; I thought it fearful then ; it would 
be mercy now. 

I had plenty of so-called friends, but somehow 
not many cared to visit me ; it was not pleasant, I 
suppose, to share my confinement and listen to my 
dismal grumblings. 

So I was left alone for the most part Alone ? — 
nay, I had company. My better self had a chance 
now of being heard. I had forgotten it, neglected 
it, banished it for years. But it had found me out, 
seizing upon my loneliness to confront me, darkness 
not being an obstacle. I disliked it exceedingly, 
yet what could I do but listen. It had come to 
upbraid me, contending with me, and left me no 
peace. 

There are two selves in every man, never at unity 
with one another, although theirs is a brother- 
hood closer than that of Castor and Pollux of old ; 
striving continuously, not because love is wanting, 
but because contention is their very nature. That 
duality in man is the outcome of sin. If he could 
oe saved from it, sin with all its consequences would 
cease to enthral him. And there is a release, as I 
found out in those darkened days. We wrestled 
without a hope of conciliation. There is not a more 
stiff-necked or inflexible being than what is called 
the better self. Not one iota would it yield ; but I 
was to give up everything, should strip myseli 
entirely to the death even of self. But I would not 
5^nd perhaps I could not 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


ij6 




i 


Yes I could, if I would ! For presently I per- 
ceived that we were not two but three ; two warring, 
and a third one trying to mediate in earnest love. 
I could oppose the better self, but Him I dared not 
contradict. I felt it too plainly that He was right, 
and that through Him only I could be at peace with 
myself and begin a new life. I knew who He was, 
the one Mediator, not only between me and that 
other self, but between me and the righteous God — ■ 
the only-begotten Son, once born in the flesh. 

In those days I was His prisoner. There was no 
escaping in the dark corner in which He faced me 
— the Good Shepherd had found the wandering 
sheep, His arms were about me, and He was ready 
to take me home. But the willingness was only on His 
side ; I cared not, suffering Him with a negative 
endurance merely, and not wanting to be kept fast. 
There was something within me waiting but for 
opportunity to break away from the Shepherd’s 
hold. 

Nor was opportunity wanting ; it is ever at hand 
when looked for by perversity. The evil one had 
nowise yielded his part in me, and required but 
little effort to assert it. 

He invented an amusement that needed no light. 
One of my friends was his messenger, and I received 
him open-armed as a very liberator. Delightful 
pastime — that game of hazard — that could be played 
in the dark ! 

We played, my friend and I — no, the enemy and 
myself ; for my companion was no other than the 
prince of darkness ; the stakes — I knew it not then, 
but I know it now — being nothing less than my 


i 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


237 


soul’s salvation. With such an expert I could of 
course not compete ; he won — I lost 

I remember a glorious evening on the Mediter- 
ranean. The day had been sultry, but towards sun- 
set a gentle wind had risen ; a cool air from the 
north-west, fresh and balmy, fanned the deck. The 
waves rose and sank in even cadence, their silvery 
crests sparkling far and wide. A playful troop of 
dolphins gamboled round the vessel. 

The sun had just dipped his radiant front in the 
cooling waters ; dashes of gold, amid a deeper glow 
of purple and red, burned in the western horizon, 
beyond the Ionian sea, enhancing an aspect of un- 
utterable loveliness. To our left was the splendid 
island of Cythera, and, rising beyond it, with clear 
outlines and deepening shadows, the majestic hills of 
Maina, where Sparta was of old. To our right the 
beauteous Candia, with the heaven-kissing Ida, the 
snov/y summit of which was even now blushing in a 
rapture of parting light. 

Lily sat silent and almost motionless, leaning 
against the bulwark, her hands pressed to her bosom, 
gazing absently toward the coast of Morea. The 
I wind played caressingly with a curl of her silky hak. 
! I knew not what to admire most, the glorious 

I panorama, or the girlish figure that formed so lovely 
a centre. My eyes rested on her, drinking in her 
beauty — ha ! what was that ? Uneasily she breathed, 
her chest heaving, her face turned to me with an 
expression of anguished distress. I saw that flush 
and pallor strove for the mastery in her face, and 
that her spisit battled against some unknown foe. 


238 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


*What is it, Lily?’ I cried, repressing emotion. 

* I know not,’ she said, with a troubled sigh. ‘ I 
felt a horrible weight on my soul. But be not 
anxious, my friend, it is gone already.’ 

And indeed she looked herself again. I tooV , 
her hand, and we sat side by side, not talking. Th » j 
night descended slowly — a night of paradise. The I 
land disappeared in folds of gray, the summit of \ 
Ida only preserving a faint flush, and the darkening j 
dome above shone forth in myriads of sparkling j 
lights. ] 

‘ What are you thinking of, Lily ? ’ I asked, 
presently closing my hand on hers. 

‘Shall I tell you, Philip?* she responded softly, 
looking me full in the face. ‘ I just remembered a 
little story ; would you like to hear it?’ And she 
began : 

‘ There was a poor man whose pious parents left 
him no heritage save an honest name and a good, 
God -loving heart; now although in this he had 
riches without measure, yet the world accounted him 
poor. 

‘ It went well with him at first, but by degrees he 
tasted trouble. He lost the small fortune he had 
succeeded in saving by dint of work. And the 
people pointed to him saying : “ Poor wretch !” 

No, not poor/’ he said ; “ God is my portion !*' 

‘But misfortune pursued him. Most of his so- 
called friends turned their back on him, and those 
even whom he had trusted most, proved faithless. 
He was deceived, calumniated, misjudged. 

‘ And people shook their heads saying ; “ How 
wretched and miserable you are, to be sure 1” 


LETTERS FROM HELL, 


239 


•**No/* he said, though his voice trembled, “not 
wretched, for God is my j-ortion !” 

‘But the greatest trouble of all now laid him 
lov/ ; he lost his loving wife, and soon after his only 
child. The suffering man stood alone in a heartless 
world. 

‘ Again the people said, shrugging their shoulders: 
“ Surely now you will own yourself miserable and 
wretched, a very butt of trouble !” 

‘“No,” he cried, repressing the welling tears, 
“ God is yet my portion !” 

‘ And the people turned from him, saying he was 
singular and strange, and nicknaming him John 
Comfort in virtue of his peculiarity. 

‘ But he, truly, was not wretched, nor indeed for- 
saken. The last words he was heard to speak or 
earth were : “ God in heaven is my portion ! ” 

‘ And he entered into the joy of his Lord.’ 

Did Lily love me? Again and again I ask 
myself this question. You will think it ought to be 
of little consequence to me now. But not so. 
Since all is vanity and nothingness here, the past 
only remains to be looked to ; and even the sure 
I knowledge that her love was mine would be un- 
I speakable comfort. But hell is void of comfort. 
I Shall I ever find an answer to that question ? 

Again and again I have gone over the whole of 
my intercourse with her, trying to understand her 
part of the relation between us. Sometimes I have 
seemed to arrive at a ‘ yes,’ and then a bitter ‘no’ wipes 
out the happy conviction. She knew me from child- 
hood, seeing a brother in me, no doubt — an elder 


<40 


LETTJiKb FROM HELL. 


brother even, for the discrepancy of years must 
have been against me. And she, whose heart from 
her tenderest youth had been directed to heaven, 
how should she, how could she, have fastened her 
affections on such a clod of earth as I was ? And 
she died so young, in the happiest age of ideals. 

But still, if I call back to mind the tenderness 
with which she ever surrounded me, the entire devo- 
tion that yielded to me with such loving surrender, 
and made her look to me as to her guide and guardian ; 
and considering that I was the only one of my sex 
she was brought into close contact with, I say to my- 
self — surely she loved me, she cannot but have loved 
me ! Not with a feeling like mine, but with her 
own sweet affection, that love divine, passionless and 
pure, which so often spoke to my soul in intercourse 
with her, but which never found root in my heart. 

And I cannot forget that in dying something 
seemed present with her, resembling the perfect love 
of holiest woman. It made efforts to flow into 
words, it hovered on her lips, shining in her eyes, 
but it found not expression. It had not reached 
the ripeness which speaks, and it died with her, as 
an unborn babe with the mother that would have 
given it life. Is it possible that it was love to 
me which, even in her last moments, glorified her 
beauty ? 

Did she love me — yes or no? Alas, I keep 
asking, and who shall give me an answer? She 
never had any secret from me. If indeed she loved 
me, that was the one secret, hidden surely to herself 
even, and she took it with her to the other life. . . . 

As a dream I remember the days we spent at 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


241 


Bethlehem — a oieam, though I hardly closed my 
eyes. 

It was with difficulty that we obtained admittance 
to a small cottage bordering upon the great cloister 
gardens. There she lay, pale as a lily, beautiful to 
the last, even in death. And the paler she grew the 
deeper glowed the brightness of her wondrous eyes. 
It was as if the very star of Bethlehem she loved to 
think of had found a dwelling in her gaze. Nor 
was she white with that livid pallor which death 
casts on features in which his lingering touch has 
wrought havoc ; it was rather a transparent white- 
ness glorifying mortality and testifying against its 
victory far more loudly than health’s rosiest bloom. 

Night followed day, and day succeeded night, the 
time for us flowing unmeasured ; I know not how 
it passed. The cloister bells kept ringing almost 
continuously, excruciating to my grief ; for it seemed 
to me as though, with heartless voice, they were 
tolling out the life of my beloved. No one heeded 
us, but the prior one day sent some consecrated palm 
branches, which appeared to delight Lily. I fastened 
them above her couch. 

As life ebbed away her unrest increased. She 
asked to be moved. She was too weak herself, 
and as a little child I lifted her in my arms, my 
mother smoothing the couch. Alas, it was the 
first time since she had quitted childhood that I 
dared take her into my arms. And, unconsciously, 
she clasped my neck to steady my hold. Oh, the 
touch of love ! but how late it came, late because 
dying ! I could not keep back my tea»'s, and they 
fell on b S’* upturned face. 

16 


242 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


* My friend/ she said, amid heavenly smiles — 
my heart yet trembles at the memory — * tears, my 
friend, and I so happy ? I do not suffer in the least, 
and soon, soon, it will all be over. There is but one 
thing grieving me. I long for the Paradise of God, 
my soul’s home, where peace and joy await me. I 
shall soon be there — without you, Philip ! But not 
for long. We shall be united again where there is 
no more parting.’ 

Her voice was nearly inaudible, and her breathing 
troubled. As a spirit-whisper those words touched 
my ear : 

* My friend/ she resumed after a while, * how 
sweet it was to call you thus ! Yes, Philip, I may 
tell you now, I loved that name for the best part of 
my life. ... Yet there was a depth of meaning in 
it which I seemed not to fathom entirely, however 
much I endeavoured to be true and loving to you. 
. . . I often felt you deserved a greater and fuller 
affection than I was able to give you . . . and yet 
those were happy moments when I tried to under- 
stand the high meaning of that sweet name. . . . But 
there seemed something hidden in it, — something I 
could not reach, — which, if I had it, would make 
happiness perfect. I have not found it. ... I go 
to God now, and there, Philip, all will be given . . . 
we shall be calling each other friend in His presence to 
all eternity . . . the measure of happiness will be full !* 

Her physical unease reached such a pitch that 
lying down became impossible. I took her into my 
arms, sitting down on the edge of her couch, her 
head leaning against my heart, and by degrees 
quietude returned. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


243 


I sat holding her, hour merging into hour ; God 
alone knew what I suffered. She moved not — 
her eyes were closed ; the slow faint breathing only, 
and the scarcely perceptible throbbing of her heart, 
showed that life had not yet fled. I held her hand 
in mine — cold, alas, already — and anxiously I 
watched the sinking pulse. I lived in its beating 
only, but oh, what hopeless living ! The hand grew 
icy, the pulse becoming slower and slower ; it could 
not last much longer. 

Suddenly she raised her eyes, suffused with a 
light of unearthly kindling, and whispered gently’, 
* My friend ! * As a fleeting breath the words 
escaped her lips, but I understood them, with a holy 
kiss bending to her brow. 

Again she moved her lips, but no further sound 
fell on my ear. She had told me once that she 
loved the habit of the ancient Church that joined a 
blessing to the Cross, and involuntarily I made the 
holy sign to her dying eyes. 

She understood it, a smile glorifying her features 
as with a reflection of heaven’s peace. Vision faded, 
the lids closing slowly. A gentle sigh, and she was 
gone. Lily’s dead body rested against my heart. 

Submission I knew not. The frail maiden had 
upheld me ; she gone, strength and self-possession 
vanished. For days and weeks I was as one bereft 
of reason, a prey to devouring grief. But of that I 
I speak not I 


LETTER XXI. 

It Is long since I wrote to you. Repeatedly I have 
taken up the pen, but only to drop it again in 
despair. It seemed impossible to describe what I 
have seen. But it weighs upon the heart, urging me 
to tell you, however feebly. Having confided so 
much to you, I ought not to keep this crowning 
experience to myself. Listen, then, to what I have 
to impart to you in sorrow. 

The great moment was fast drawing near. 
Darkness seemed being engulfed by the abyss 
more and more rapidly — light with us reaching its 
fulness in a transparent dawn ; but far, far away, 4 
beyond the gulf, a great daybreak was bursting the j 
confines of night. I knew the fair land of the 
blessed was about to be revealed. It was a won- 
drous radiance, increasing quickly, and transfusing! 
the distant shore with hues of unknown and in- 
describable loveliness. In dreams only, or when 
yielding to the magic of music, a faint foretaste of 
such glory may come to the human soul. 

Hell seemed captivated, the whole of its existence! 
culminating in an all - pervading sense of dread ; 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


245 


millions of hungry -eyed souls drawn toward a self- 
same goal. Some like pillars of salt stood motion- 
less, gazing into the brightening glow ; others had 
sunk to their knees ; others again, falling to the 
ground sought to hide their faces ; while some in 
hopeless defiance refused to look. But I stood in 
fear and trembling, forgetful of all but the vision at 
hand. 

And suddenly it seemed as if a great veil were 
rent asunder, torrents of light overflowing their 
banks, and the wide heavens steeped in flame. A 
sigh bursting from untold millions of lost ones ended 
in a wail of sorrow that went quivering through the 
spaces of hell. I heard and saw no more. As one 
struck by lightning I had fallen on my face. 

How long I lay thus confounded I know not ; 
but when again I lifted my dazzled eyes, there was a 
clear, steady glow, a beneficent radiance that admitted 
of my looking into it, not blinding vision. Still I 
had to accustom my sight to it ; it seemed a vast 
ocean of light that by degrees only assumed colour 
and shape ; dawning forth to the raptured gaze as a 
world of beauty and loveliness, such as eye has 
not seen and the mind is unable to grasp. But 
never for a moment did I doubt the reality. I knew 
it was the land of bliss, even Paradise, unfolding 
to my view. At first it seemed as though islands 
and distant shores grew visible in that sea of light, 
gentle harmonies of colour floating about them 
But gradually the scattered parts united, formings 
perfect whole, a world of bliss immeasurably jvst 
Yet, infinite as it appeared, it formed but 
country — a garden abounding in blessing, in ^^uty, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


^46 


in delight The loveliest spots on earth are as desert 
places in comparison. I have no other .vords to 
describe it To do so fully and justly I had need 
to be an angel, and you know what I am — one who 
might have been an angel, but lost now and for ever 
undone. 

Trembling with awe and enchantment I gazed 
into Paradise, deeper and deeper, encompassing, no 
doubt, thousands of miles. For, strange as the aspect 
was, the power of vision given was stranger still ; 
my spirit seemed roaming through vast realms of 
glory, all their beauties laid bare to my tranced 
sense. I felt the balmy breezes, I heard the rustle 
of trees, the gentle cadence of waters. It was given 
me to see every perfect fruit, every lovely flower, 
every drop of dew reflecting the light. I saw, heard, 
felt, drank in the fill of beauty. There was music 
everywhere, speaking the language of nature glorified. 
Not a dewdrop sparkling, not a tree-top rustling, not 
a flower opening, but it swelled the heavenly psalm ; 
all sounds floating together in harmony, wondrous 
and pure. As yet I saw no living soul ; but songs 
of joy, of exultant praise, resounded everywhere, 
nature and spirit uniting in one perfect hymn. 
What shall I say, but that infinite bliss, unspeakable 
happiness, and heavenly peace, flashed delight into 
my soul with a thousand daggers of longing ! 

This then was Eden, I seemed all but in it, and 
yet how far — how far ! Of all that glory not a ray 
light for me, not a flower even, or a drop of dew I 
Ai* gracious heavens, not a drop of water — not a 
wng. tear ! 

But vhere were th'^y, the souls whom no man 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


24; 


hath counted, the saved ones, redeimed from the 
world ? Not one of them I had seen as yet. The 
garden seemed as untrodden of human foot as on 
the day when Adam and Eve had been driven forth 
by him with the flaming sword. ‘Where are ye, 
my loved ones, if not in the heaven I see?’ My 
heart cried out for them, longing, thirsting — Aunt 
Betty somehow rising first to my mind. Why she, 
I cannot tell, since there is another far nearer and 
dearer to my soul. 

But while I thought of her, behold herself! 
Yes, there she was, I opening my sorrowful arms to 
clasp her ; but, ah me, there is a great gulf fixed, 
and no passing across it I Yet I saw her, dear Aunt 
Betty — saw her as plainly as though I need but 
stretch forth my hand to draw her to my embrace. 
It was she, and yet how changed ! glorified to youth 
and beauty everlasting, the same to recognising 
vision, but perfected, and spotless as the white 
•aiment she wore. Some happy thought seemed 
i-.ioving in her as she walked the paths of content, 
crowned with a halo of peace. I saw she was happy ; 
I saw it in the light of her eyes, in the smile hover- 
ing about her mouth ; she had conquered, and sorrow 
and grief had vanished with the world. 

I was deeply moved, to the pouring forth of my 
soul even in weeping ; but what boots emotion if the 
eyes are a dried-up well ! I thought of the love 
and sell-forgetting kindness she had ever shown to 
me in the days of her life. Now only I knew hovv 
much she had been to me — now only I understc^od 
her. For — marvellous yet true — I not only saw 
her ; I was permitted even to read her heart- All 


LETTERS FROM HELL, 


148 


she had suffered — her every battling and victory- 
lay open tc my view as a finished tale. Yes, I 
understood her as I had never done before. Long 
ago when she was young, my father had been a true 
brother to her in a time of bitter sorrow, offering 
her the shelter of his love when she found the world 
empty and cold. She had never forgotten that — her 
grateful heart vowing to him the remainder of her 
life in the service of sisterly devotion. She had 
kept that vow fully, fondly. That was the key to 
her life. And her beautiful sacrifice of love enriched 
not only my father, but all she could help and 
cherish, souls without number, of whom I was chief. 

My father — Lily! my heart was reverting to 
both simultaneously. And oh, rapture ! — I beheld 
them even now emerging from a shady grove. 
Aunt Betty seemed to be meeting them. 

The sight of Lily was more than I could bear, a 
film overspreading my senses. It seemed at first as 
though both had appeared but to vanish ; but no — 
in perfect clearness and heavenly calm these beloved 
ones moved in my vision. Nothing of outward 
beauty, nor yet of the heart’s secret history, being 
hid from me. Truly I had never known them, 
never seen them aright before. 

O Lily I beautiful even on earth and of sweetest 
womanhood, but surpassingly beautiful in the fulness 
of Paradise, Mortal eye has not seen such loveliness 
jglorified tc transcendent charm. Nay, human im- 
agination is too poor to reach even to the hem of 
i^er ^Tarment. ‘ Holy and sanctified ! ’ seemed to be 
writtein in her every feature, surrounding her with a 
halo of jjraise. It spoke from her crown of glory, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


24^ 


from the palm of victory she carried, from her robe 
of righteousness whiter than snow. And as she 
lifted her shining eyes, it was as though their gaze 
enfolded me ; I trembled and glowed, as a flickering 
flame touched by a kindling breath. And that 
angel smile of perfect bliss accompanying the look 
seemed meant for me — even me. But that was 
illusion. None of them can see us here — thank 
God ! I saw her ; she was near me in spirit vision, 
but in truth she was far, far away ; and the blessed 
ones in Paradise are saved from the thought of hell 
and ’ts every horror. Yet the separating gulf does 
not separate me from her inmost thought. Woe is 
me ! shall I weep, or dare I rejoice ? I can read in 
her pious heart as in an open book ! Ah me, what 
do I read ? I see it — see it as in clearest writing 
that she loved me with all her soul — truly, if uncon- 
sciously, with the deepest purest giving of virgin 
bride. Ay more, she loves me still ! she is thinking 
of me, longing for me with a longing as painless as 
pure. For it is in hell only that pain and grief are 
known. 

What more can I say ? Hopelessness, my daily 
portion, is as a blazing fire feeding on my soul, some- 
times sinking in ashes, but never dying. At that 
m.^ment of sweetest bitterest conviction, the flame 
seen.ed fostered by denial, the very essence of hell. 
Bliss and delight veering round to despair, my whole 
miserable existence flared up in an all-consuming 
agony. 

’ See wnat might have been yours, but you have 
lost it — lost i ’ was the ever-recurring cry of my tor- 
tured soul. Can you wonder that I hardly heeded 


250 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


my good pious father who walked beside her, sharing 
her felicity ? — that I cannot remember a single word 
passing between them — nay, heard not for very 
anguish? Had I been quiet to listen, no doubt I 
would have heard mention of my name, might have 
heard them speak of me in heavenly tenderness. 
But, having seen Lily, and read in her very heart 
the assurance that she loved me, I heard and saw no 
more. See what might have been yours, but you 
have lost it — lost ! ’ I writhed in despair. Vain was 
my effort to lift eyes to her once more — 1 could 
not — could not ! And with a cry of horror 1 feii 
back upon myself 


LETTER XXII. 


Since you heard from me last — and there seems to 
have been a longer pause than usual — I have roamed 
about in aimless adventure. 

There are no accurate means of estimating either 
distance in hell, or the speed of our travels; ; I expect 
that both are astounding. Time and space here can 
only be spoken of in an abstract sort of way, as 
existing in thought merely. Consequently there are 
hardly two souls amongst us that would agree con- 
cerning the measure of either. But that holds true 
of anything. 

Since everything, then, is imaginary, unanimity 
is merely accidental, and what is called harmony on 
earth not to be found here. That a number of 
souls by social instinct, and under force of habit, 
should unite at a given place for a given object by 
no means is proof of concord. For concord pre- 
supposes liberty, whereas such souls are under down- 
right compulsion, and, apart from the instinct which 
drives them in a common direction, nowise at unity 
among themselves. 

My roamings, then are no free-will undertaking. 


852 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Whenever I feel especially miserable and desponding, 
there is a sense of relief in dashing about blindly 
with no other object but that of moving. Blindly, 
I say — meaning heedless of obstacles ; pushing 
through walls, mountains, houses, trees — through 
living creatures even if they are in my way. The 
latter, of course, is not altogether pleasant ; fancy 
rushing through man or beast in your aimless hurry * 
But one gets used to everything here. ‘ Oh, dis- 
tracted soul !’ your neighbour cries, and is satisfied 
you should pass. We are always suiting ourselves 
to circumstances, you see. Are you surprised that 
I should yield to such madness of motion ? True, 
every one here has his or her congenial abode ; so 
have I, leading, as you know, a sickening life. But 
I am helpless once the frenzy seizes me, unhinging 
my very existence, and away I hie me, as driven by 
despair. 

Yes, that it is — despair and nothing else, en- 
gendering a need, amounting to passion almost, of 
trying to escape from oneself, or at least to stupefy 
oneself 

Neither the one nor the other is possible ; in thf 
world one succeeds at times, never in hell. But that 
knowledge does not restrain me ; again and again I 
perceive the utter uselessness of endeavour, pulling 
up suddenly, perhaps, to find myself in the strangest 
of places. 

And more horribly strange, more dismal than any, 
is the place from which I lately returned. As a 
maddened fool I felt driven thither ; as a maddened 
fool I hurried back, utterly confounded. 

1 suppose every soul here is forced to perform 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


253 


that journey once at lea-t ; and in so far it might 
not unaptly be called a pilgrimage, but to a frightful 
shrine. Whether it is on account of a certain inex- 
plicable mania possessing us all sooner or later, or 
merely by dint of a dread attraction exercised by 
that awful place, I know not ; but no one escapes 
the fate of going thither once, if not oftener. You 
know what a crowd is drawn by a public execution, 
and that people will assist at so dire a spectacle 
unless positively prohibited. It is strange ! But 
what should you say if any one by morbid attraction 
had a longing to watch his own execution ? Some- 
thing very like this takes place here. 

You are aware by this time, and must be so, apart 
from my inadequate account, that between this evil 
place and Paradise a great gulf is fixed. Great, I 
I say, and would add frightful, but that words invented 
for earth’s need are altogether unfit to describe that 
I gulf. It is the home of Satan. Do you understand 
that ? In the depth of that abyss the quenchless 
; fire is burning, for ever tended by the devil and his 
host. How far away is it ? I cannot tell ; I think 

? it is in the outmost limit of hell. How near one 

I may approach it ? Even at a distance of hundreds 
of miles one feels seized with giddiness and all the 
b horrors of death ; but one is drawn nevertheless. 
I That one should ever escape it again seems marvel- 
I lous. How wide the gulf is ? When lit up by the 

I radiance of Paradise, the eye at a leap seems to 

J carry you across, but I doubt not it may be likened 
I to a shoreless ocean. 

Light now is fast decreasing, swallowed up by 
the darkness rising afresh from the abyss. Do you 


254 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


expect me to describe to you that abode of terror ? 
But I can no more depict it than I was able to give 
a true representation of Paradise. It is beyond 
human possibilities, and I am but human, even in 
hell. Yet one thing I may tell you ; believe me, 
that more than one rich man is to be found by the 
awful pit, looking across to where they see the 
blessed poor in Abraham’s bosom, stretching forth 
their arms too, and entreating for a drop of water to 
cool their tongue. But that first rich man of the 
gospel does not appear to be among them ; there is 
a rumour that perchance he was saved. 

Alas ! I was among those begging rich, suppli- 
cating with all my soul, but no one — no one heard 
me. Despair urged me to fling myself into the awful 
gulf, that perchance I might lose myself amid the 
howling fiends of the bottomless pit. What power 
prevented me, and eventually brought me back from 
the place, I know not. Is it possible that God in 
His mercy is yet keeping me ? 

I have returned then, dreading I shall be carried 
thither a second time. I must tell you more, though 
it be a subject of horror both to you and to me ; 
but then all these revelations are fraught with horror, 
and these letters had better remain unread by those 
whose self-complacent tranquillity cf mind dislikes 
being harassed. 

As I returned shivering in every fibre, and con- 
scious of the thought only of Satan and his angels, 
I all but fell into the arms of one coming towards me 
on his A^ay to the gulf. 

But was it a human being, this creature with 
mangled body and frightfully disfigured countenance I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


255 


A man indeed, his very appearance bespeaking his 
name — Judas Iscariot. 

A piece of rope was round his neck, and in his 
hand he carried thirty pieces of silver. The rope all 
but suffocates him, and the money burns his fingers ; 
he keeps throwing it away, but it always returns to 
his grasp. I have heard that it may be absent 
awhile swelling some usurer’s gains ; but Judas before 
long finds it in his closed hand again, bearing the 
marks of blood. And then he is heard to groan, 
‘What is that to us? see thou to that!’ — a fruitless 
repentance, which is not repentance, eating away 
at his soul, and he spends himself in vain efforts 
to get behind some one and seize him by the 
neck. 

What he intends by this is not quite clear ; but 
people think he is anxious to find a charitable soul 
who will give him back the kiss he once gave to his 
Lord and Master, and thereby free him from those 
horrible pieces of silver. But the soul lives not in 
hell who would care to save him at the cost even of 
a kiss ; he is an object of repugnance to every one. 
I too burst away from him horrified. 

I came across a scrap of newspaper the other 
day, and my eye was caught by an advertisement 
offering ‘ bridal bouquets and funeral wreaths in great 
variety.’ And just beneath it a stationer expressed 
his willingness to sell hand -painted cards for the 
menu of wedding breakfasts and ‘ In Memoriam ’ of 
the dead. Such is life, I said ; side by side grow the 
flowers for the adorning of brides and the crowning 
of corps's. Bette sometimes the latter than the 


256 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


former ; better to be clasped in the embrace of death 
than find love dying before its time. 

Memorial cards ! how touching and — how cheap ! 
How we love to speak of the virtues of our departed 
ones, mourning them ostentatiously, and assuring the 
world we shall miss them for ever. For ever? 
Look into your own heart, my friend, and expect 
not to be remembered too long when you are gone. 
Love's wreaths will fade on your grave, and the night- 
winds alone will keep up their moaning around it 

What is this buzzing about me like troublesome 
flies- —memories ? 

I once had taken a youth into my service. He 
was a kind of legacy of Aunt Betty’s, and for her 
sake I intended to be kind to him. But somehow I 
was always finding fault with him. There are people 
who rouse our evil nature, for no reason one can 
see. Poor fellow! — perhaps he was not over bright 
though he tried his best. But patience was not 
one of my virtues. I scolded him almost continu- 
ously, taking a kind of satisfaction I believe in thus 
revenging myself oa what I considered his stupidity. 
I well remember the many hard words I flung at 
him, provoked from bad to worse by his meek 
sorrowful countenance. At last I said I could 
not bear his fool’s face any longer, and gave him 
warning. I did help him to another place, where I 
fancy he was more kindly used than with me. But 
it was a disheartening beginning for one who had to 
make his way in service ; and he had deserved better 
at my hands. When he had left me I discovered 
all sorts of little proofs of his touching fidelity and 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


*57 


grateful disposition. How badly I had rewarded the 
poor fellow for such golden qualities ! 

It could not be called a great matter, but it left a 
sting. 

My town residence had the rare amenity of a 
little garden ; it was shut in at the farther end by a 
blind wall forming the back of a humble dwelling in 
the rear. But the wall was not quite blind ; it had 
one little window not far from the ground — to my 
notion, the one eye of the house which kept looking 
into my privacy. I had no need to think so, for 
behind that window sat a poor seamstress who had 
something more to do than watch my movements. 
True, she would now and then look up from her 
needle, as if she delighted in my garden ; and she 
even dared sometimes to put her head out of window 
to enjoy the fragrance of my flowers. There could 
be no harm in that, but I disliked it. And availing 
myself of the letter of the law, I ran up a paling a 
few feet from the wall. 

The right of doing so was mine, but it uas very 
wrong. The poor creature had delighted in my 
garden, the proximity of which had helped her 
through many a joyless day. She loved flowers, 
and the sight of green things was grateful to her 
hard- worked eyes. There were a few thrushes in 
the garden, and she was cheered by their song. My 
fence was simply cruel, depriving her not only of 
these enjoyments, but of fresh air as well, and of the 
light she sorely needed — I had shut her out from her 
share of the sky. 

I had acted heedlessly, and I came to sec it 
before long ; good-nature even was stirred, and I 
>7 


258 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


actually resolved to make amei.is. I went round 
to the back street, but was too late ; the poor girl 
had been obliged to leave her little room, over which 
the struggles of ten lonely years had thrown a halo 
of home. 

Neither was this a great matter ; but little things 
make up the sum of g od or evil in life. I feel sore 
at heart. 

I had gone out riding one day ; it was in the 
country, and I intended to look up a farmer in a 
small village, but did not know his house from the 
surrounding homesteads. The place seemed asleep 
in the noonday sun, not a youth within hail to whom 
I might have thrown the bridle. Looking about, I 
saw an open cottage-door and the figure of a young 
girl appearing on the threshold ; I called her and she 
promised to mind the animal, seeming half shy, half 
ready to please me. 

I went on my business, and, returning, came 
upon an interesting spectacle. The mare had be- 
come unmanageable ; the young girl could hardly 
hold her, feeling evidently distressed by the creature’s 
pranks. Her efforts to subdue its gambols served 
as an admirable foil to her figure ; her every move 
ment was charming, and her pretty face li^ected 
so delightfully both fear and vexation, that instead 
of hastening to her assistance, I stood still behind a 
shrub watching complacently what I considered an 
exquisite scene. 

There was no danger involved. The mare was 
not vicious — only frolicsome ; but the rustic beauty 
did not understand that, and was evidently frightened, 
holding fast by the bridle, jumping now nght, now 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


a 59 


left, her lithe figure following the capering animal. 
It was merely to ingratiate herself with the damsel 
that the mare tossed its head, plunging again as if 
to snap at her kerchief, which now slipped from 
her shoulders revealing the whitest of necks. And 
behold, the masses of golden hair escaped their con- 
finement falling in a shower of ringlets as though to 
veil her charms. Her distress increased visibly, a 
deep glow mantling her features, her bosom heaving. 
Now on tiptoe, now curving her outstretched arms, 
bending this way, bending that, she delighted me 
with her graceful movements. 

But there was a sudden end to my enjoyment 
She caught sight of me, and I was obliged to ap- 
proach. Had she let go the mare, it would have 
been no more than I deserved ; but she held on 
faithfully till I was near enough to take hold of the 
bridle myself. There she stood burning with shame 
and anger, her e}^es brimming with tears. Before I 
mounted I endeavoured to slip half-a-crown into her 
hand ; but she turned from me proudly, the coin 
rolling at my feet 

Surely no great matter. I had wronged the girl, 
by being unkind to her, while revelling in the sight 
of her beauty • but she came to no harm. On the 
contrary, I have a sort of conviction that the little 
adventure proved a useful lesson, teaching her to 
beware of admiring fops. 

Nevertheless, memories will not be silenced. Jus- 
tice is the law of life, be it in the world, or in heaven, 
or in hell ; and every act of man, though it contain 
but a shadow of wrong, calls for atonement, unlesj* 
God Himself in His mercy will blot it out 


26 o 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I know St now — I know it — who shall free me 
from even such guilt? 

Do you see that tree? Often and often I sink 
down beneath it with groans of regret, for on its 
branches are gathered the opportunities of a wasted 
life. They keep falling down on me, ready to crush 
me. I am often driven thither by the lashes of the 
awful Inevitable. How happy I might have been 
how much I might have done in the days of golden 
possibility. 

But I would not ! As a blind man I walked in 
Hfe, careless of light. It is dark now, but I can sec 
— I do see — the failure of my days. 


LETTER XXIII. 


If memory takes me to the Holy Land now, I seem 
to roam through its length and breadth as a broken- 
hearted pilgrim questioning every spot for the 
Saviour of men, but unable to find Him, with whom 
there is forgiveness of sin. In the blessed days I 
spent there actually, peace was offered me daily, 
hourly ; but I was too much engrossed with my own 
vain thoughts to be anxious for the unspeakable gift 
An angel of God walked beside me, whose influence 
over me was marvellous. Lilyas faith and piety were 
as sunbeams to my heart ; I felt the vivifying touches, 
and more than once was near yielding up my sinful 
being, my life and all, for so precious a Saviour — her 
Saviour — who was ready to be mine ; but at the 
decisive moment self-love, writhing in agony, shot up 
within me as a flame of hell, blinding the eyes. I 
saw not Him, but only a fair girl by my side — the 
aim of my earthly hopes and all but mine already, 
who, alas, should soon cost me the hardest of all 
conflicts, even a wrestling with death. 

O Galilee, thou land of beauty ! How fine is 
the contrast between Judaea, dark, wild, and waste, 


263 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


and thme own fair, genial tracts. And of all places 
none more sublime than Mount Tabor. In glorious 
solitude it rises from the broad expanse, lifting a 
precipitous front north, south, east, and west. Clothed 
to the top with woods and shrubberies, its evergreen 
oaks and pines seem to vie in beauty. And the 
place is rich in aromatic plants. Never anywhere have 
I met such freshness — such exuberance of nature. 
From the south only the mount is accessible, a path 
winding to the very summit, revealing fresh charms 
of landscape at every turn ; and rising from the sun- 
burnt plain, you enter regions of air more pure and 
balmy than you ever dreamt of. The way is longer 
than you expected, but repays you amply ; and as 
you reach the summit behold a tableland of some 
three miles in circumference, an expanse of richest 
greensward and splendid groups of trees. You 
enter this retreat of beauty by a ruined gate in the 
west. Remains of enclosures and turrets, of grottoes 
and cisterns, meet the eye at every turn — memorials 
of a mysterious past which tell of an encampment 
or even a city that may have stood here. But now 
peace has her dwelling there, if anywhere in the 
world, with a sense of security and calm. No 
wonder that Peter exclaimed : ‘ Lord, it is good 
for us to be here : if Thou wilt, let us make three 
tabernacles ; one for Thee, and one for Moses, and 
one for Elias.’ 

We had begun the ascent towards evening, and 
though it was but March the day had been oppres- 
sively hot ; it was like a deep draught of refresh- 
ment, therefore, to reach the cool balmy height. We 
felt as though admitted into Paradise. Just before 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


263 


sunset we gained the top ; and finding ourselves 
unexpectedly upon that glorious tabbland, com- 
manding so boundless a view, a deep silence fell 
upon us — the whole of Galilee, nay, the greater part 
of the Holy Land, at our feet ! 

I looked towards Lily, for it was through her 
that the best of impressions at all times reached me. 
The setting sun was weaving a halo about her, cast- 
ing a roseate glow on her beauty, which more than 
ever looked as though it were not of earth. I had 
often felt this, but never so fully before. And the 
glory of earth and sky about us seemed as nothing, 
compared to the uplifting radiance that spoke to me 
from Lily’s face. She stood wrapt in worshipping 
delight. 

Bear with me, my friend, if I seem lengthy, carry- 
ing thee back again and again to scenes dead and 
gone. It may seem foolish in a poor lost one like 
me, but even that is not of my choice! I am 
for ever driven back upon my own past, and what 
was happiness then is misery now — ay, hopeless 
despair. 

Towards the north we looked away over the hills 
of Galilee to the snowy peaks of Lebanon and the 
regions of Damascus. Nestling at our feet were the 
little towns of Galilee, Cana, Nazareth, and Nain, with 
their holy memories. Westward lay the plain of Esdra- 
elon, steeped in charm, with Carmel beyond, and the 
sea suffused with the light of the setting sun. Brook 
Kison, winding through the valley like a ribbon of 
sheen, guides the eye to the headland overhanging 
the Mediterranean. Turning to the east your gaze 
is captured by the beauty of Lake Gennesareth, with 


264 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the small town of Tiberias, now in ruins. Not far off 
is Capernaum, and beyond the lake the desert where 
Christ fed the multitude. To the south are Mount 
Ilermon and the hills of Samaria. Farther still, 
beyond Jericho, the lonely height where the Son of 
God fasted and was tempted by Satan. Your eye 
wanders away over Jordan to Bethabara, where John 
baptized ; over the Rea Sea to Mount Nebo, in the 
land of the Moabites, w lere Moses died ; and in the 
distant haze you descry the boundless desert of 
Arabia. 

The sun was sinking — nay, it fell into the sea, 
glowing like a ball of flame, and sudden darkness 
overspread the land. But our people had been busy , 
a tent was ready to receive my mother and Lily, for 
we intended to spend the night on Tabor. Our 
mules enjoyed their liberty and the succulent grass. 
A fire had been lit with odoriferous branches of cedar, 
and a simple supper was being prepared. Every 
hand was busy, excepting the Turks, our escort, who 
looked on, lazily contemplative, enjoying their even- 
ing hookah. Those sunset scenes making ready for 
the night, how soothing they had always been to 
my restless soul ! But that evening on the Mount 
in Galilee was one of the last restful evenings I knew 
on earth. 

When darkness had set in we lit more fires and 
placed the necessary outposts, for nowhere in the 
Holy Land is one safe from an attack of Bedouins 
But it was easy to secure our position here ; the 
place was a fortress in itself. 

Having retired within the tent, we passed an 
hour by the subdued glow of a lamp, Lily present!* 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


365 


taking her Bible and reading to us the story of the 
Transfiguration. Her voice to me was ever as * a 
cool hand laid on an aching brow/ sufficient in itself 
to attune my soul to ' worship. I listened, anxious 
to listen. Yet it was but as a transient breath of 
even in a sultry atmosphere; my spirit soon would 
flag, fluttering helplessly, and unable to rise. 

* Do you feel comfortable, Lily ? * said I, on wish- 
ing her good-night. 

‘ O yes,’ she replied, with one of her happy smiles ; 
* I should like to live and die here.* 

I knew from her manner, and her eyes told me, 
that she had more to say. I bent my ear, and she 
whispered : 

* Do not forget to say your prayers, Philip, on 
lying down to-night ! Remember that our Lord 
prayed here for you also ! ’ 

A breath of life to touch me — my soul raised her 
wings. I went out deeply moved. 

My couch was prepared just outside the tent. I 
laid myself down wrapped in a burnous ; but not 
to dispose myself to sleep at once. I must say my 
prayers. A prayer from the heart I think I had not 
known since the days of my childhood. Of late I 
had been trying, but always felt that something was 
wanting — alas, not merely something, but the thing 
that constitutes prayer — uplifting the heart toward 
God. I really endeavoured to collect my thoughts, 
but hither and thither they roamed against my will. 
It seemed vain for me to fold my hands, to move my 
lips — the spirit of prayer was absent. And yet I 
could not think of sleeping without first having 
prayed ! Stillness seemed to have settled within the 


266 


LETTERS FRCIM HELL. 


tent ; but I, outside, could not rest me and be still 
I looked up, wakeful, toward the starry sky. It 
seemed so near; but there was no peace in that 
feeling. It oppressed me — the enclosing firmament 
was like a prison. The voices of night t^gan to 
work on my fancy, and restlessness fevered my blood. 
There were sounds all about me — wild boars break- 
ing through the brushwood, and jackals howling in 
the plain ; the call of a night-bird in the trees mingled 
with the strange gruntings of the sleeping Turks, 
who in dreamful unease added their share to the 
concert of discord that filled my ear. 

It was midnight. My repeater announced it as 
clearly as a church bell, I thought. I tossed impa- 
tiently, gazing into the dying embers. There was 
something quieting in the sinking glow — it held me 
still. And presently I thought I heard Lily’s voice, 
reading how the Saviour was transfigured on the 
Mount. Yea, and I saw Him standing between 
Moses and Elias in heavenly glory. Upon that 
vision I closed my eyes. And behold my soul had 
been praying ! The spirit, freed for a moment from 
the trammels of the flesh, had risen to Him. I could 
sleep now, and slept quietly till dawn. 

The glow was deepening on the heights of 
Ashtaroth, beyond the sea of Galilee, as I ap- 
proached the northern slope. I was standing by a 
choked-iip cistern, awaiting the yet veiled glory wil h 
eyes riveted on the eastern sky v/hen a light figure 
came up behind me. It was Liiy, quietly putting 
her arm within mine. We spoke not, but together 
we gazed toward the far shore of morning that over 
flowed with light How sacred was its calm 1 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


26> 


But now the sun appeared, a wellspring of splen- 
dour, flashing from height to height, and setting a 
halo on Carmel : for the west lay steeped in wonder, 
ind the sea caught every sparkling beam. 

‘ Oh, Philip, surely this is the beauty of holiness,’ 
whispered Lily ; ‘ let us praise the Lord ! ’ I had no 
woids, but wrapped my burnous about her, for a 
cold wind swept the Mount. 

The valleys lay yet hidden in mist and darkness, 
but there seemed a fluttering movement in the 
cloudy coverlet — a sudden rent, and through it 
appeared a shining cupola and the white glittering 
walls of a little town, like a revelation from another 
world. 

‘Nazareth!’ cried Lily, in happy surprise. ‘O 
Philip, look I we have it all here ; sweet gracious 
Nazareth and holy Tabor. He humbled Himself, 
yet was the beloved Son, in whom the Father was 
well pleased.’ 

She only said He as the thought of Him moved 
in her heart, filling her soul. I had no need to ask 
her meaning. How wide were her sympathies, how 
keen her perception of beauty, but her deepest life 
owned Him Lord, and Him alone. 

The sun having fully risen, we walked back to 
the tent. 

It is here He was transfigured,’ said Lily, pre- 
sently, stopping short and looking about her with 
reverential awe ; ‘ but not yet had He accomplished 
what He had come to do — the will of His Father, 
to the death, even on the Cross. Not yet had He 
drunk the bitter cup — Gethsemane, Gabbatha, Gol- 
gotha 1 But here for a moment He was uplifted 


268 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


into the glory that awaited Him at the right hand 
of God ; and thus strengthened He went forth to 
the humiliation and suffering that lay before Him. 
Philip/ she added, ‘ is not this a holy example for 
all God’s children ? We, too, have a path of sorrow 
to tiead, many a trial to go through ; but we, too, 
may have a foretaste of the joy to come, the perfect 
liberty promised, and it may help us to reach the 
end. Without this grace divine many a burdened 
soul might fail on the road, for life seems hard at 
times. We have been strengthened by a vision on 
this mount ; . . . my heart is very full. My spirit 
rejoices ; ... let me join in the new song to the 
glory of the Lamb ! * 

Was that Lily? Yet it was not for the first time 
she had spoken out of the fulness that moved her. 
Every day of late had made her more fit for heaven ; 
even I saw it. But I trembled at the inward beauty 
she unfolded, which seemed one with her ardent 
desire to go behind the veil. 

‘ I cannot help telling you, dear,’ she continued, 
clinging to me for support ‘ I feel as if I could 
not breathe again down there in the everyday 
world. It is a happy feeling, yet fraught with 
pain. I do not say I would give the rest of my 
life, but I would give much for a few quiet days up 
here ! ’ 

‘ Would it really make you happy, Lily ? ’ said Ij 
sadly. 

‘ Oh yes, Philip, and well too ! I seem to breathe 
easier, and my heart is free.* 

‘Well, then, ask mother about it I am satisfied 
with whatever pleases you, .sweetest Lily.* 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


269 


The mountain seemed astir now, and the encamp- 
ment full of life. Our people were wide awake, 
Turks and all ; some making coffee, others baking 
cakes of wheat or maize on heated stones ; others 
again tending the animals or polishing the^r arms. 
The Turks looked on complacently. Having accom- 
plished their matutinal devotions, they lighted their 
pipes and allowed others to do the work. But there 
was life too beyond the camp — herds of goats 
browsing far and near. A cool wind played about 
the tree-tops, and the flowers looked more gay in 
the light of morning. 

My mother raised no objection to Lily’s desire ; 
she had been strangely ready of late to humour her, 
from a feeling perhaps that we should not have her 
much longer. 

So we remained, and we all liked it It was, to 
tell the truth, a charming mode of spending a few 
days — camping gipsy fashion on so lovely a spot 
high above the work-a-day world, with a view over 
all the land — the Holy Land — in the purest of 
atmospheres, amid scenes of nature, rich, balmy, and 
fragrant as Eden itself, and in absolute calm. It 
WMS a time of blessing, truly. And Lily revived ; 
there was no troubled beating of the heart, no 
sudden throbling of the pulse — I knew, for o^'ten 
would I hold the dear little hand quietly nestling 
within mine — no tell-tale flushes dying away in 
pallor. Her fac : wore a delicate bloom. I almost 
believed in the wonder-working power of the sacred 
Mount. I was myself again, casting fears to the 
vvind, and adding my share to the happiness of the 
nroment 


170 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


In the course of the forenoon pilgrims of every 
hue and nation arrived, with cripples and sufferers 
in the rear. Fortunately, our encampment was at 
some distance from the actual sanctuary, which saved 
us from being overrun. It was a sad and almost 
sickening sight ; but Lily did not think so. On the 
contrary, she was all sympathy, yearning to help 
where she could. To the poor she offered money, 
to the sick medicine, the comfort of a helpful word 
to all. Love trembled in her eyes, gathering sweetly 
at her lashes. How beautiful she was, her dress half 
eastern and altogether charming ; how lovely she 
looked, gliding about from one miserable pilgrim to 
another ; and they all understood her, knowing never 
a word of her language ! 

Towards evening I received a visit from the chief 
who had undertaken to be responsible for our safety 
from Nazareth to Samaria. He had been hunting 
on the Mount, and was now coming with a splendid 
retinue to pay his respects to me, and pre. ent me 
with a wild boar he had killed. Of course I had to 
return the compliment, and indeed his attention to 
me was worthy of an acknowledgment. True, he 
robbed me of the precious evening I had intended 
to spend alone with my mother and Lily, instead 
of which I now was obliged to play the amiable 
host, presiding at an extemporised feast. 1 did my 
best — in conversation too, which, helped on by a drago 
man, was a patron of flowery speeches. One com 
foil was left — Lily watched us from the distance, 
and seemed intensely amused. The Emir on quitting 
expressed himself highly sensible of my attempts to 
do him honour ; and with thankworthy politeness 


LETT.^RS FROM HELL. 


271 


pitched his camp half-way down the Mount, leaving 
the upper domain to ourselves. 

But enough ! It is no healthy craving that 
urges me to enlarge upon this sort of thing amid 
the horrors of hell. You may turn for the rest 
of it to Chateaubriand or Lamartine if you like. 
F'ool — fool that I am, even in the realms of 
death I 


LETTER XXIV, 


Adventures of all kind are of daily recurrence 
here, but they are void of interest. Like everything 
else in hell they mock us with emptiness — mere 
shadows of things left behind. 

Not long ago, at a lonesome spot, a young woman 
flung herself into my arms, not for love of me, but 
for horror of another. She was being pursued, 
and a sensation of fear, natural to her sex, startled 
her into a show of weakness. It was foolish in her ; 
she might have known that she could not really be 
harmed, and that whatever cause of fear there might 
be, I had no power to help her. But such things 
will happen here ; we live in the notions brought 
hither from the world, no matter how clearly we see 
them to be meaningless. It was quite conceivable, 
then, that the tender creature I held in my arms 
should have been sufficiently distressed to seek the 
protection of my manhood. 

I gave her time to recover herself, and ther 
inquired into the nature of her alarm. She lifted 
a pair of eyes to me, tenderly trustful, like a turtle 
dove’s, but trembling afresh, as if the very question 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


373 


were too much for her shy and gentle dispositioa 
However, she found courage to reply : 

‘ He is always after me. I do not know his name 
—he is seeking for Beatrice. He fancies I am she.* 

I knew at once whom she meant That man is 
one of the public characters in hell, if I may say so. 
It is an ill -chosen expression, but descriptive terms 
acquired in the world are apt to be inadequate here. 
In hell all are public, yet none is so in the sense you 
would attach to that word. What I mean to convey 
is simply this, that the man she spoke of is known 
throughout the regions of hell, pointed at by young 
and old ; and that wherever he goes he is mocked 
with his own constant cry : * Where is Beatrice ? 
Can any one tell me where to find her?* This 
question is for ever in his mouth. Beatrice seems 
his one thought, and the getting hold of her his 
mania. He is convinced she must be in hell ; * for,’ 
says he — but let me cast a veil over the poor girl’s 
history. Enough that he seeks her with such brutish 
eagerness as I have not known even in this place. 
But he looks for her in vain. Were it possible for 
him to find her, even hell would shudder at the 
probable deed. He is one of the most repulsive 
beings I have met, and that, surely, means a good 
deal here. He must be vice personified, all human 
feelings burnt out of him ; nothing remaining but 
the one wild inhuman passion that has possessed him. 
And then the horrible wounds disfiguring his body, 
his life-blood foi ever gushing through every one of 
them I He is a refuse of the vilest in hell. No won- 
der that the poor shamefaced creature was filled with 
horror at the sight of him. 

18 


274 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


‘ Then you are not Beatrice ?’ I said. 

* No/ she replied, with the meekest of looks. ‘ I 
am Emily/ 

Our acquaintance did not proceed farther on that 
occasion ; but I somehow felt sure I should meet her 
again. 

Having left her for the present, I could not but 
occupy my mind with her. How was it possible, I 
thought, that such a creature as this Emily should 
have come to hell ? She seemed an image of fairest 
womanhood. True, beauty alone is no safeguard ; on 
the contrary, some of the most favoured in this respect 
would seem to be here. But her utter gentleness and 
simple-hearted sweetness — her modest bearing — must 
be genuine, I thought. A veil of purity seemed to be 
cast about her, despising dissimulation. There was 
a grace not only in her face and figure, but in 
her every movement, that might well claim to be the 
garment of an innocent soul. And then, so young, — 
a very child to the world, surely. She might be 
nineteen, but one would hardly credit even that. I 
saw she had been married, for she wore a ring ; but 
she looked hardly grown-up. Now, the true simpli- 
city of innocence is admired by the most worldly 
even — how justly so may be inferred from the fact 
that it does not exist here. It is rare on earth; but 
some women seem to preserve the heart of childhood 
in spite of the promptings of the flesh and the devil. 
Emily, to all appearance, seemed to be one of these 
chosen few. As a grown child she looked whose 
feet could never have been soiled with the mire of 
the world. How, then, did she come to wake in hell ? 
Involuntarily I thought of the awful truth that the 


LE'^'TERS FROM HELL. 


*75 


heart is unclean by nature, no matter what graces 
may twine about it, and though its lot be cast in the 
fairest of paths. 

I met her again before long, and, unnoticed by 
her, watched her at leisure. She sat apart, deeply 
engrossed, and offering a sight both attractive and 
singular. Her attire was of cloister-like simplicity, 
utterly white, the ample folds enveloping her slender 
form, — purely white from top to toe, without a 
shadow of colouring, and contrasting strangely with 
the surrounding darkness. One thing only seemed 
wanting to crown the indescribable gracefulness of 
her appearance with the perfection of beauty — 
peace — which, of course, she had not. Her delicately 
shaped hands moved busily in her lap. I discovered, 
after a while, that a precious necklace occupied her 
attention, the pearls of which she kept counting, now 
beginning at one end, now at the other, but always 
stopping at the centre, and dropping it again to 
wring her hands. I fancied I saw tears in her eyes ; 
but that of course was not so. 

I moved up to her presently. 

* Are you la dame blanche ?* I said. 

It was a stupid question, since there are so many 
ladies owning this title. 

But she only shook her head, saying : * No, I am 
Emily Fleming.* 

‘ Fleming and Sparkman ?’ I ejaculated, surprised, 
naming a highly respected firm. 

She nodded, heaving a deep sigh. What could 
she mean ? Was she some member of a well-known 
family ? 

But she, meanwhile, had replaced the pearls on 


276 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


her neck, sitting motionless with folded hands. I 
hasten to add that no one ever succeeds here in 
folding hands aright — that also is of the past She 
appeared lost in sorrowful thought. 

* Poor child T I cried, ‘ you seem very unhappy.* 

‘ Yes — yes, I am,* she sobbed. * I have sustained 
a loss which I can never make good.* 

‘What is it you have lost, poor Emily?* 

‘A pearl — a pearl,* she murmured, wringing her 
white little hands. 

‘A pearl !* I echoed — a slight thing, surely, to be 
cast into hell for. And yet there are goodly pearls! 
Was not there a man who sold all he had that he 
might buy one pearl of great price ? 

‘Well, perhaps you may find it again,* I said, 
anxious to be kind ; but it was foolish. 

‘Do you think so?’ she said, brightening. ‘But, 
alas I I have sought for it for years and years.’ 

The memory of a promise seemed hovering about 
me, that those who seek shall find ; but I could not 
shape the words, and only said vaguely : 

‘ If you have sought so long already you may be 
all the nearer the finding.* 

It was the vainest of speeches, but it broke down 
the reserve about her heart. She seemed to trust 
me, and before long she told me the history of her 
life. It cost her a real effort to do so — I saw that 
well enough ; but the longing to unburden oneself 
is irresistible with us. And, moreover, the veil of 
secrecy is always being lifted here from every soul. 

‘You seem to be acquainted with the house of 
Fleming and Sparkman,* she began ; ‘ perhaps the 
present heads of the firm were known to you. But 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


277 


my history takes me back — ah, let me see — for seven 
generations. How long it seems ! * 

‘ As a light-hearted girl of sixteen I became the 
bride of Robert Fleming, and he brought me, a happy 
young wife, to the old family house. On the day 
we were married he gave me a precious necklace, 
worth a man’s ransom, as the saying is. And before 
fastening it on my neck he spoke to me about every 
pearl in particular, adding a meaning to their value, 
which comes back to me now with terrible force. 
“ The large blue pearl in the centre — a gem rather,” 
he said — " signifies your wedded troth ; the deep 
red one your true love ; and that white one your 
innocence. The lesser pearls on both sides make up 
the number of wifely virtues — each pearl for a grace 
— and there are many you see. And that which 
holds them together, making them your own pre- 
cious adornment, is chastity and womanly honour.” 

‘With his own hand he fastened the costly gift 
on my neck. His words had impressed me but 
slightly ; I was young and delighted in the splendid 
ornament. But, alas ! the time came when I could 
but remember them in tears. . . . Look at my neck- 
lace ! The pearls c.re all there, but the central gem 
is missing. And the loss of that pearl has ruined 
me. 

‘ Did I love my husband ? I do not know what 
to say honestly. Perhaps I did not love him as I 
might have loved another. But I must own that 
wedded life at first seemed happy ; he loved me^ 
and two sweet little babies crowned our union. 

‘ All went well till a friend of my husband’s 
entered our house — a man as false as fair. I can^ 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


278 


not tell how it was, but he cast a spell over me. 
Was it that I loved him ? The affection I felt for 
my husband was quite different, and I am sure it 
was true ; but he somehow had never waked in me 
the intoxicating rapture which that other one called 
forth. I felt it welling up in flames of fire whenever 
he came near me. Was it madness ? was it witchery? 
I think it was a power of evil seizing upon the heated 
blood rather than on the mind or heart It worked 
as a subtle poison ; but though a poison it was very 
sweet In vain I struggled against it Yet I can 
hardly say that I struggled, for although I knew 
those feelings to be evil, I loved to dally with them, 
and the will to conquer was in abeyance. 

* Being alone with him one day, he, carried away 
by passion, caught me in his arms. I offered no 
real resistance. I felt overtaken, and a sensation 
as of swooning seemed uppermost Yet I must 
have made some involuntary movement of escaping 
from his hold ; for the string of my necklace giving 
way suddenly, the pearls rolled hither and thither 
about the apartment That brought me back to 
myself. He too seemed suddenly dispassioned. It 
was as though an invisible hand were attempting to 
part us. We started asunder. 

‘Yes, we had been sobered all at once, reality 
staring us in the face. I drew myself up, requesting 
his immediate departure, and he obeyed. I was 
anxious to look for my pearls, and happily I found 
them all, one only remaining lost, the blue one of 
wedded troth. Alas ! how earnestly I sought for it, 
morning, noon, and night, but it had disappeared as 
by magic. I succeeded in keeping the fact from my 


LETTERS PROM HELL. 




husband for some time, and I permitted no foot save 
mine to enter the fatal room. I sought and sought, 
but the precious pearl was lost. And at last there 
was a day when my husband saw that it was gone. 
It was a terrible moment I He said little, but from 
that hour a gloom rested on his brow, which spoke 
more loudly than words could have done. I under- 
stood it — “Thy troth is broken, thy purity lost; thou 
art no more for me ! ” 

‘ The false friend also seemed stirred in con- 
science ; he kept away. How it was with him I 
know not, but in me the fire had been kindled which 
burned with a hidden flame. My heart had con- 
ceived sin, and the wicked image would not be 
banished. I strove against it feebly; it was stronger 
than I. My inward gaze followed him spellbound ; 
and with him was my every thought. Even in 
dreams I was his. That moment, when we had 
been so very near to actual deed of sin, had left its 
taint. Sin had gained an ascendency over me, and 
I yielded helplessly in the secret chamber of my 
heart. And yet that heart had been pure before 
it knew him, and evil thoughts had never assailed it. 
Alas, how little is needed to murder innocence! The 
white robe of my soul was soiled. One only could 
have restored it to cleanness, — He who would not 
condemn the woman that was a sinner. But for 
Him I looked not, grovelling as I lay at the feet of 
an idol. 

‘I fell ill, and even in illness my folly was upon 
mq, burning within. The wild fancies of fever must 
have laid bare my inmost soul to my husband. My 
last thoughts on earth clung to that sinful moment 


28 o 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


that robbed me of my pearl. I was the prey of 
death — life vanished, and, lifting my eyes again^ I 
found consciousness returning in the torment of hell 
I have come to own the justice. . . 

There was a pause of silence, and then Emily 
continued : 

‘ Do you know what it is to go back as a restless 
spirit to the upper world ? No ? Then you are a 
stranger happily to a cruel law ruling some of us 
here. / could not rest in hell ; go back I must to 
seek my pearl. I have been seeking — seeking — these 
centuries past, but it is hopelessly lost. ... 

* I cannot tell you what I felt on first returning, 
a disembodied soul, to my former home. I trembled 
as one on forbidden ground. 

‘Not a corner of the big old house I left un- 
haunted ; in passages and rooms, from cellar to 
garret, I have been looking for my pearl, spreading 
terror everywhere. But the horror seems to recoil 
upon me, filling me with fear and trembling. Every 
inmate of that house, at one time or another, has seen 
the white lady looking for something with a lamp. I 
am more dreaded than the nearness of death itself. 
One old servant only of the present household seems 
able to bear the sight of me. He has seen me so 
often that 1 believe he has got used to me ; he folds 
his hands in silent prayer, and heeds me not. It 
happens sometimes that we meet and meet again in 
the long dusky passages, he following his business, 
I bent on mine, with that difference between us, 
that he walks in confidence and I in despair. 
But it comforts my poor trembling heart to come 
upon his well-known figure in the lonely halls. 1 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


2S1 


have known him from his youth upward, watched 
him doing his duty in uprightness of soul. His hair 
is white now and his figure stooping ; but the nearer 
death he seems, the more courageous he looks, and 
the greater his fearlessness in meeting me. He 
alone appears to feel no horror at my approach, nor 
need he. I have as little power to harm him as he 
has to stop me. I can only look for my pearl ! 

‘ I hasten to the well-known chamber. This is 
the spot where for one fatal moment I yielded my 
soul to sin and was lost in consequence. Here it 
was that my jewel vanished. Here, then, I seek most 
anxiously with indescribable longing. But the pearl 
need not be here ; some one may have found it and 
taken it away. That is why I search the house, 
every chamber and every closet, peeping into my 
lady’s jewel-case, and into the work-box of the 
humblest servant-maid. It is chiefly among the 
women of the household that I look for the gem I lost. 

‘ I flit through corridors. One of them since 
time immemorial has been used as a picture gallery. 
Here I find the lifelike image of the husband I so 
cruelly wronged. I dare not lift my eyes to it, yet 
I seem rooted to the ground there for hours. I keep 
thinking, might there not be an expression in his 
face, — the shado w even of an expression, — promising 
forgiveness and restoration ? But I dare not look 
lor it ; I creep away, guilt trailing behind me. 

‘ Guilt and shame, for my own picture hangs by 
the side of his, filling the measure of silent reproach. 
I fancy that picture to be my real self in youth and 
innocence — myself being but a miserable counterfeit 

‘The picture! of my children too, my lovely 


LETTERS EROM HElL. 




f 


babes ! My heart yearns for them who once found 
their heaven at my breast. But, alas, they are 
strangers to me now ; they look down upon me 
with eyes that know me not. Them also I be- 
trayed, robbing them of their mother’s love, and * 
they need me not I I drop my eyes in bitter shame, 
and hurry away. 

‘ Some seven generations I have seen come and 
go, the bonds of blood uniting us ; but not only have 
they learned to look upon me as an intruding i 
stranger, but to shun me as a very vision of hell. | 

‘The venerable house has fallen into evil repute j 

as being haunted. The family have often thought \ 
of leaving it or pulling it down, but somehow their 
fortunes seem bound up with that ancient pile, 
and quitting becomes impossible. They accept the 
trouble of my presence, and I flit about, a lifeless ^ 
shade among the living. j 

‘ The absence of mystery too enables them to put • 
up with me. I am known to be their ancestress, and I 
my sad history in all its details is a matter of gossip; j 

the very echoes of the house seem to whisper about ] 

the young wife who was so lovely but faithless. 1 

‘ The fatal necklace is an heirloom in the family. j 
But the central pearl is missing. A diamond cross ■ 
has been added in its stead — the symbol of faith, if I 
remember aright. 

‘ It is my necklace still. And whenever the 
owner for the time being is about to pass away, I 
appear by her dying bed with the solemn question, 

“ Where is the pearl ? ” 

‘For several g derations there was nothing but 
horror by way of in aaswer, and, dismayed * at the 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


i83 


terrible confusion I created, I would hurry away in 
despair. But an expedient has been found. The 
dying women now invariably place their hand on 
their Bible, replying boldly, “ The pearl is found ! 
We have this as a pledge ! ” It is not my lost 
pearl, you understand, but there is no gainsaying 
their reply. ' Ah me, had / found that pearl of great 
price which gives such assurance to dying souls, I 
too might have had healing comfort for my loss. 
But the sin remains, my pearl is gone, and I am left 
to wail in torment ! ’ 

She was silent, writhing in agony. But even 
now, though filled with despair, her face preserved 
an expression of childlike loveliness and most en- 
gaging innocence. Hov/ bewitchingly beautiful she 
was ! And I thought to myself, were it not that 
she stands condemned out of her own mouth, and 
had another told me her story, it would seem 
impossible to believe it, to credit so fair a creature 
with such a measure of indwelling wrong. 

Behold the growth of passion ! It is but a 
passing thought perchance, moving the heart. 
Whence is it — who can tell ? Whence is the 
sudden cloud darkening the fair heaven ^ and 
whence the electric spark ? Your mind conceives ; 
and your heart, unless you guard it, will nurse the 
awful birth. The fiery influence shoots through your 
being. Your nerves tremble, your blood is aflame. 
And though quiet may be restored, there is that 
within you which at any moment may course through 
your veins afresh. For remember, if you had an ocean 
of the red stream of life, one drop ol poison might 
vitiate it. Alas, it is more than a drop; the tempting 


*84 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


thought has grown to a power of evil possessing you — 
a nature within your nature — wild, lawless, and lead- 
ing you captive. Sin has taken root in your soul, 
innocent though it found you. How far it may take 
you God alone can tell. 

Watch over your thoughts, then, lest they ruin 
your soul ! Watch, I say, and stifle sin in its birth. 
It may be a small thing at first, but how awful is the 
growth, suffusing body and soul with poison, doubly 
dangerous for its seeming sweetness ! Has it seized 
your heart — ah, fly to the Physician. 

Where is He ? 

Alas, my friend, 1 know tSGt 


LETTER XXV. 


Snatches of song keep running in my head ; it is 
not I who seize upon melody, but the melody takes 
hold of me. You little think what power of torment 
there may be bound up :n music, and the sweeter 
its echoes, the more cruelly they fall upon the soul. 
I do not refer to memories that may be connected 
with sound ; they may be very bitter, but we are 
used to that and can hardly expect it to be other- 
wise ; it is not this I mean. But there is that in 
music which is utterly discordant with this place of 
woe, producing a terrible jar in the soul. Harmony 
and hell, — the bare thought is enough to distract you. 

I What is music but a longing for the infinite, filling 
i you with a foretaste of joy and beauty unspeakable ? 
But for us the truth of such longing 1: as vanished, 
since we are for ever severed from that promised 
world, toward the shores of which the waves of 
highest melody will ever tend. Now only I under- 
stand the full power of music ; but the knowledge is 
clothed with terrible pain, giving you a glimpse of 
Paradise, and leaving you in hell ! . . . 

What was the name of that place among the hills 


i86 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


of Samaria where we rested one noonday hour in the 
shadow of palm trees ? Was it not Shechem or 
Sychar? The people there will tell you that a 
certain broken cistern, which still yields water, is the 
identical well where Jacob wept for joy on seeing 
Rachel with her father’s sheep. Never have I known 
greener fields or more luxuriant vegetation than at 
this blessed spot, stern heights rising about you. The 
whole valley seemed a garden, rich in figs and mul- 
berries, in_ pomegranates, vines and sycamores. The 
date-palm, the cactu.s, the aloe, grow in profusion ; 
olive groves at the foot of the hills, pines and ever- 
green oaks climbing beyond. 

But there was no rest for us by Jacob’s well 
The heat was intense, even in the deepest shade, and 
the plague of insects vi^as intolerable. We were glad, 
therefore, to shorten our siesta and seek the cooler 
upland air. On the road Lily told me a story. 

Let me repeat it. Two things, however, may 
surprise you with regard to this narrative, which 
treats of faith — a weak wavering faith it is true, but 
seeking for strength. 

You may wonder in the first place that Lily 
should have told it, whose pure, steadfast, childlike 
faith never knew the sorrows of tempting doubt. Of 
course she may have read the story, but how 
she should give it with such vividness I cannot 
tell. 

You may be surprised, secondly, that / should 
repeat it who am for ever lost to the blessedness of 
believing. Fcr had I but the poorest remnant left, 
this very fact, I doubt not, would bring me within 
the reach of salvation. It is memory only which 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


has a hold of this little story ; and though it may 
stir my feelings, the spirit is dead — d^^ad. Pity me 
my triend ; but you cannot understand the fearful 
mockery of speaking of things pertaining to faith — 
the very life of the soul — and having no part in 
them ! They seem to rise before me, beckoning me to 
lay hold on them; I stretch forth my hand, and lo, 
there is a hopeless blank. 

It is just like trying to call back a face you have 
known ; you see now the eyes, now the mouth, now 
this expression, now that ; but the living whole will 
not return to you. 

Yea, and it is a face for which I thirst and 
hunger — even the face of Him who died on the Cross. 
I can speak now of this feature, now of that — of His 
wondrous love. His humility. His grace; but I cannot 
see Him — the Man of sorrows — who alone could 
yearn over a soul in hell. 

But enough ! Whatever trouble weighed upon 
the spirit of him of whom Lily’s story told, it must 
have been light and peace, compared with the fearful 
darkness enveloping me. 

This is what I remember : 

‘ When the Apostle Peter took his last leave of 
the Christian people of Antioch, having set his face 
toward Rome to follow his Lord in death, a great 
number of the faithful, young and old, accompanied* 
the beloved Father beyond the city. But they had 
to separate, weeping as He blessed them ; and re- 
turning to their homes, they yielded their hearts to 
the will of God. The apostle went his way. 

‘ But there was one, old in years, who, having 
shared in the parting benediction, yet followed io 


288 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the distance. And Peter, perceiving him, beckoned 
him to approach. 

‘“Thou art troubled, my son,” said the aged 
apostle, with winning love; “what is it that oppresses 
thy heart ?” 

‘ “ Father,” replied the stranger timorously, “ is it 
not faith which justifies man in the sight of God, and 
makes him an heir of the kingdom ?” 

‘“Yea, surely. Canst thou not believe?” 

“‘I do believe, beloved Father, but I cannot tell 
whether it is saving faith. It seems so weak and 
wavering, and yet by faith alone I may reach to 
heaven. That is my grief ! I seem to be able to 
believe, fully and ardently at times, but not for long ; 
and again I am left troubled and doubting. Faith 
seems to be shattered to pieces then, robbing me of 
all assurance, and were it not for the blessed name 
of the Saviour, I had nothing left to cling to. T 
have known moments when I seemed to rise as on 
wings of trust, when the fulness of heaven seemed 
given me. At such times I tasted all the blessedness 
of believing that he who seeks shall find ; that he 
who knocks shall be received of God ; of believing 
fully that I, led and taught by the Holy Spirit, 
would never again wander away from my Father in 
heaven ; that I was bought with a price, even the 
precious blood of Christ ; and that His love would 
hold me safe to all eternity. I have known such 
faith as this, and, believe me. Father Peter, it was 
free from self-sufficient thoughts. Ana yet it cannot 
be saving faith ; for at the very moment, sometimes 
when my heart seemed nearest to the blessed com- 
inunion of my Saviour, sin was at hand, and 1 


LETTERS FI OM HELL. 


289 


fell grievously, losing the sense of divine acceptance, 
and finding myself in the dust, bleeding and helpless, 
and more miserable than he whom the thieves left 
lying on the road to Jericho ; but the Good Samaritan 
was far — far away ! 

’“Alas, Father, my sufferings at such times are 
great. The sneers of the unbelieving at the power 
of faith I could have borne ; but that the experience 
of my own heart should confirm such doubt distresses 
me greatly. 

‘ “Yet so far I have always risen to my feet again, 
to lenew the conflict; shutting my doors on unbelief, 
and willing to be led as a little child by Him who 
came to save. But woe is me, I am not saved — T 
think I am standing, and lo, I fall. 

‘ “ I am truly grieved at this my state, but re- 
pentance never yet gained me that power of the 
Spirit that might fit me for more real fellowship with 
Christ. Alas, Father Peter, my sorest weeping avails 
me not. When thou hadst fallen, thou didst weep 
I know ; but thou couldst rise from tears more 
firmly planted than before, never again to deny the 
blessed Lord. But not So I — I fall, I weep ; I rise, 
I fall, denying the Master continually. 

‘“You see, holy Father, what manner of faith 
this is ! There is but one thing I am sure of, even 
the name of the Saviour which alone has never left 
me ; aught else is wavering and, I doubt me, no 
certain foundation. Had I not been troubled already, 
I must have been filled with fear and trembling on 
hearing the word lately — Show thy fa'th by thy 
works ! For alas my works, if not altogether evil, 
are full imperfection testifying against my faith 
'9 


290 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


How, then, shall it save me, if this is all my hope of 
acceptance ? 

‘ “ I look back on life, and lo, I see a continued 
struggle — now in sorrow, now in despair. I will not 
say I have lost hope entirely ; nay, I know that in 
spite of defeat I must go on battling, remembering 
that salvation is not of man’s striving, but of God’s 
giving. But I am old now, fast approaching the 
time when no man can work. Dare I hope for 
victory ? will it be given to such weakness of faith ? 
I am full of fear, clinging to the one hope only that 
the Good Samaritan, whose name I have believed in, 
for all my backslidings, will come to me at the last 
to lift me in His arms of pity and carry me home. 

‘ “ But will He do it ? He has bound up my 
wounds again and again ; will He accept me in the 
end ? I dare not plead my faith, — weak and waver* 
ing as it is, I am altogether unworthy of His saving 
mercy. I have not loved Him as I ought ; even 
less than father or mother, or son or daughter, com- 
ing continually between me and Him. Ah, what 
shall I do to find His peace ? what shall I do to be 
sure of being saved ? ” 

‘ The apostle had listened in silence. His coun- 
tenance shone with a heavenly light, his eyes seeking 
for things afar. What was it that moved in his soul, 
radiating from his brow — what blessed memory of a 
day gone by? The Spirit had carried him back tc 
the sea of Tiberias, and he hears the voice of the 
risen Saviour, “ Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou 
me?” And now, as then, his heart makes answer, 
“ Yea, Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee.” And 
his Lord repeats, “Feed my sheep.” 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


291 


.‘My sheep! He looked upon the aged maa 
Here was one of the Good Shepherd’s wandering 
sheep. And greatly moved, the apostle said : 

‘ “ My brother, if faith, being poor, cannot help 
thee, try love. Mark my words ; let it be thy one 
desire henceforth to show to the Lord that thou 
lovest Him. Let nothing be too great, and nothing 
too little, to do for His sake. Let love to Him 
be thy staff and thy strength, and thou shalt find 
peace for thy soul. Thy very endeavour to prove 
thy love to Him will make thee rich in the assurance 
of His love. It will fill thy soul, it will save thee 
utterly. Love for thee also will be the law’s fulfilment. 

‘ “ Behold,” he added, “ how wondrous is His love ! 
steeping thee in blessing even while thou art sacrific- 
ing all. Whatever thou doest for Him comes back 
to thee. He never takes ; He only gives, fulfilling 
His own word that it is more blessed to give than 
to receive. Yet it is thy love He looks for.” 

‘ “ But what of faith, my Father,” asked the 
stranger doubtingly, “by which alone we are said 
to live ? ” 

‘ A happy smile lit up the apostle’s countenance, 
and he replied : 

‘ “ It will be well, my son, with faith even. 
Thinkest thou it could be absent where love lives 
and moves ? Go thy way, and hold fast that which 
thou hast ; and grace and peace be with thee ever- 
more. 

Have I not spoken some time ago of a peculiar 
pain, a separate sorrow ? Ah, my friend, I have not 
told thee all 


293 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


We are ever on the verge of despair ; a touch, a 
thought only, and we are in the midst of it ; it is 
incessantly welling up from the depth of our own 
heart, ready to engulf us. The mind at times resists 
with a frenzied power, but only to sink back in 
defeat. And the worst of it is that I am struggling 
as it were on both sides, offering agonised resistance, 
v/hile turning tooth and nail against myself in maddest 
hatred. 

How long these fits may last I cannot tell ; it is 
not with us as with you, that exhausted nature her- 
self yields the remedy. There is no nature here, but 
only existence. 

But the paroxysm ceases. There seems to be a 
climax of fury ; when I have beaten myself out, so 
to speak, there is a lull. 

But sometimes — ah ! this is the deepest experi- 
ence, would I could say the most precious ! but that 
is more than hell admits of, — sometimes, as the 
waves of madness sink away, there rises a vision to / 
my soul, wondrous and holy, even the image of the 
Crucified One. And there is a sudden calm, despair c 
seems drowned, and all is still. Not that suffering 
ceases, but an all-enfolding sense of loss has swal- \ 
lowed up the rest. I stand accused — I hear a voice . 
crying : * It is thou, thou who broughtst Him to the ) 
cursed tree ! ’ 

Did I say vision ? Nay, the very word is too 
much. I was a prey to longing, but I dare not 
delude myself ; such seeing is not for me. The 
hungry spirit imagined for a moment — I see the 
Cross — the thorn-crowned figure — I look — and it is 
gonel Yet I seem tr feel it present, if only I could 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


293 


pierce the hiding darkness. I gaze and gaze, but 
tenfold night enwraps the longing soul. 

Him who died I see not, but the Cross keeps 
dawning forth and receding. Beyond it I get not 
I once knew the story, but it is gone, gone ; and the 
more I try to remember, the greater seems the blank. 
Tell me, ought I to despair, ought I to rejoice ? I 
see a Cross truly, though an empty one ! Did He 
not die on the Cross ? Why should it keep rising 
before me ? Is it for punishment ? is it for hope ? 
Was not there something about taking up the Cross 
and following ? 

Happy, thrice happy, O men and women, having a 
cross to bear ! Murmur not, but bear it willingly, 
lest the time come when ye long for it and find it an 
empty vision the very burden gone. 


LETTER XXVI. 


We were sitting together on a high cliff overlooking 
a northern sea. A few solitary trees stretched forth 
their branches above us, a landmark for vessels sail- 
ing by. Far below us the murmuring waves broke 
in melodious cadence, leaving their mysterious mes- 
sage with the lonely shore. 

Evening was stealing across the sky with those 
lingering touches known only in the distant north, 
night hesitating, though the sun be about to set. 
Sleeping nature there is curtained in a balmy twi- 
light, steeped in the tints of vanished sunbeams, and 
hiding with tender shadows both land and sea. In 
the north only summer-time reaches its fullest mean- 
ing, each sinking day leading forth the radiant morn ; 
darkness is not, but a dreamful dusk in its stead. 
Nothing more beautiful than those evening hours 
with their slowly settling calm ; how enchanting th., 
stillness, how full of poetry the hushed expanse, the 
slumbrous sea at your feet, and the distant shore 
blushing with the kisses of parting day. 

But I was heedless of it all, for she sat by me. 
Her deft little hands were busy with some needlework. 
I was to read to her, but the book had dropped from 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


295 


my hold, and I was fast losing myself in dreams. 
How sweet she was in her springtime of youth, just 
entering upon her sixteenth year. There was some- 
thing unutterably attractive in that first unfolding of 
womanhood, so tenderly appealing, so holy withal. 

She was very white, but it was the transparent 
whiteness of the lily suffused with a faint reflection 
of the sunset sky. The red life -stream of youth, 
fragrant and pure, throbbed beneath her delicate 
skin ; it took but little to call up bewitching blushes 
to her lovely face. A wealth of hair crowned her; 
it fell in silky masses about her shoulders, and her 
long lashes appeared to withhold a depth of beauty 
from your longing gaze. There was something 
infinitely childlike about her mouth and the sweet 
oval of her face ; but it blended with an impress of 
womanhood, a mystery to be worshipped. 

A peculiar stillness veiled her being — a calm of 
life, if so I may call it ; the gentle breathing moved 
her bosom, and her hands flitted lightly about her 
work. She was busy with her own thoughts, which 
seemed to glide across her features like sunbeams, 
leaving a smile behind. 

But as I sat wrapt in the sight of her, the good 
angel watching me turned and wept The evil spirit 
was fast gaining the upper hand. But even at such 
moments the pure soul of hers had power to subdue. 

Unconscious of aught else, no movement in her 
escaped me. I soon perceived glow chasing glow 
on her cheek, and mantling her brow ; her hands 
trembled. Signs of warning these, if I could have 
called back the better self. 

At last her eye met mine with a look of gentle 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


^96 


reproof, steeped in dignity. The spell was broken ; 
a feeling of contrition swept my senses. The good 
angel was ready to lift me above the mire of earth- 
born passion. 

‘Why do you keep looking at me so persist- 
ently?’ she said. 

‘ Why, Lily ? ’ — what could I say — ‘ Do you- dis- 
like it ? ’ 

‘ I am sorry to seem unkind, Philip,’ she said, 
‘but I do dislike it. If you stare at me like that 
1 feel strangely troubled — like a bird held fast by 
cruel hands. I do not know why ; but you might 
as well look elsewhere — could you not, dear ? ’ 

‘ Certainly,’ 1 said, smiling at the simple question. 
‘ But do you think I could harm you ? Are you 
afraid of me ? ’ 

‘ Afraid of you ! ’ she cried, roused to sprightli- 
ness ; ‘ that is strange. I might as well ask whether 
you are afraid of me — are you ? ’ And she put her 
little hand in mine. ‘ Are you angry ? ’ she went on 
gently, after a while. 

Yes I was, but not with her. I hated myself, 
but answered quietly enough : 

‘ When was I angry with you last, Lily ; let me see?’ 

‘ I don’t remember it in the least,’ she said, bright- 
ening more and more. ‘ But come, we had better 
think of home now.’ 

And she took my arm, looking at me with her 
trustful eyes, as if to say that fear of me was alto- 
gether impossible. But she did not even think it ; 
I onl)' laid hold of the thought, and felt happy agaia 

We went along the cliff. It was a rich balm> 
evening in June. On the strand below, the fishing 


LETTERS FROM HELL, 




boats offered a busy scene ; a few yachts in the dis- 
tance glided before the breeze. And on the horizon 
an island coast lay shrouded in a mystery of trans- 
figuring light. It was one of those rare evenings 
when earth’s beauty seems touched with a reflection 
of heaven’s perfect bliss. 

‘ Afraid of you !’ Lily repeated, reverting gaily to 
the thread we had dropped. ‘ That was the strangest 
idea you ever had ! On the contrary, I feel wonder- 
fully secure and taken care of, and the thought of 
your manliness fills- me with pride. I fancy some- 
times that strength is given to you for me as well, — 
that you would never allow any one to hurt me, and 
1 say to myself. Who could resist him ? It must be 
a grand thing to be a man and do noble things in 
life ; but I think it is better still to be a woman and 
be cared for by a man who is noble and strong. 
And you know things much better than I do. They 
say there is much evil in the world ; it is sad, but I 
suppose it is true. Now a man with your know- 
ledge sees things, and sees through them ; he must 
be comparatively safe from evil, and be able to hold 
others safe. That is why I feel so happy by your 
side, as though I could follow blindly wherever you 
lead me. I care not to be strong and clever myself, 
since I have all I need in you. You are noble, I am 
sure, and ready, not only to defend those you love, 
but even to give up anything for their sake. I like 
to fancy myself in trouble and danger ; it is quite a 
pleasant sensation, so long as I have you near me. I 
am sure you would even risk your life for me, would 
you not ? You smile ; but don’t think me silly. I 
am quite sure you are good and noble and strong.* 


293 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Of course I smiled. My soul seemed lit up as 
with a thousand stars, dispelling everything that need 
shun the light. What a wondrous power that child 
had over me, lifting me above myself into her own 
atmosphere of purity ! I may well call it an influ 
ence divine. I seemed to rise from the dust and to 
be what she believed me, — one stronger than she, 
good and wise, well fitted to be the guardian of her 
trustful life. O happy moment — never to return ! 

The evening was fading ; we were not far from 
our dwelling. We had reached a place where we 
often rested, on the top of a towering cliff rising 
several hundred feet above the sea. At high-water 
the waves would beat about the foot of it, foaming 
and curling, and falling back exhausted. But the 
tide was low now, and the silvery ripples in the dis- 
tance hardly touched the ear. On the top of the 
cliff a flagstaff had been erected, something in the 
shape of a cross ; beneath it there was a low wooden 
bench. We sat down, Lily and I, as we had often 
done before. The top of the cliff was still within 
reach of the parting light ; all about us — land, sea, 
and sky — seemed veiled in calm. We sat silent ; a 
sacred stillness, the peace of nature at rest, enfolded 
our hearts. 

‘ Look !’ cried Lily suddenly, pointing upward 

A flight of sea birds winging their way across the 
deep — high above us, but it was so still that we heard 
them plainly. We followed them with our eyes till 
they vanished in the dusk. 

‘ They are gone,’ said Lily with a deep-drawn 
sigh. ‘ Were they not like blessed souls journeying 
tc the better land, where sorrow is not, nor death, 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


299 


nor pain, and tears are wiped away ? How they 
must rejoice. What longing — what triumph I’ 

Strange to say, a similar idea had come to me 
My soul was open to uplifting thoughts. 

The silence was broken. And presently we 
talked about the music of the sea — the monotonous 
rhythm of which seems ever new. I compared the 
rising and sinkiig of the waters to a pendulum, 
measuring the ages of eternity. 

And we spoke of the wondrous longing in the 
human heart, ever reaching to that which is afar, 
above, beyond ; making it restless even in the lap of 
content. 

Again we were silent, and then Lily said : 

‘ How beautiful that the sign of the Cross should 
overlook the sea from this high cliff! How the sight 
of it must flash comfort across the deep, cheering the 
sailor in time of trouble, perhaps, when he is battling 
against wind and wave. The white cliff will be seen 
afar, and the Cross must seem to stretch forth arms 
of blessing, sending the message far and wide ; “ Fear 
not, for I have redeemed thee — thou art mine 

‘ But, Lily, not everybody shares your feeling , 
this Cress, as you call it, to most sailors will be a 
mere flagstaff’ 

‘Perhaps so,’ she said ; ‘but Christian people are 
aliko in deepest feeling nevertheless.’ 

She paused, and then continued, closing her hands 
on my arm unconsciously : 

‘ For my own part, I have often felt the powei 
of the Cross, young as I am. I love to think of it 
as a symbol. Sometimes, when I am troubled, I 
need but call the thought of it to mind, and quiet 


300 


LEtTERS FROM HELL. 


restored. It seems marvellous, but it is natural aftei 
all ; for do we not know that love for us brought 
Him to the Cross.* 

Can your heart even be troubled, Lily ?* 

‘Yes, often. It is true I have everything to make 
me happy, but unrest often fills my soul. I suppose 
it must be so while we are in this life.’ 

She was right : the heart of man will be battling 
for deepest rest to the last. 

‘ But I have what is better than the Cross to help 
me,’ Lily continued, rising and leaning against it — 
‘ His own dear name. Whatever trouble may come 
to me, I need but whisper that name, and peace 
straightway flows down upon me. His own peace, 
so full of healing : surely it is blessed to call on Him 
in all things ! Have you tried it, Philip ? Oh, do ; 
it is so easy to turn to Him with all our griefs and 
failings. It needs but a word, a clinging to His 
name, and the blessing is given. I know it. I have 
found it so.’ 

No, I could not say I had tried ; at least never 
since I was wont to pray by Aunt Betty’s knee. 
But . . . what was that moving within, stirring my 
deepest soul ? ... Yes ... I would listen, I would 
follow and try. 

The Good Shepherd standing at the door — it 
was not His fault that salvation was offered in vain. 
I heard Him knocking even then, and His fear fell 
upon me. * Is it Thou, Lord ?’ I cried tremblingly 
‘ alas, I am not ready ; I will let Thee in when the 
place is prepared !’ And feebly I set about sweep- 
ing and garnishing it, keeping Him waiting till it 
was too late. 


LETTER XXVII. 


My lette:s are becoming few and far between. I 
dread the effort more and more, though I feel urged 
to write. I yield, but only to be seized with an 
indescribable reluctance, and I drop the pen in the 
midst of a sentence perhaps. 

This reminds me of Aunt Betty’s letters luckily. 
That will help me to catch a thread, for I assure 
you the very sight of ink is sickening to me. 
But the memory of Aunt Betty is like a refreshing 
breeze. 

Now Aunt Betty’s letters were a very image of 
herself — bubbling over, candid, and sometimes queer, 
without the faintest pretence at elaboration. She 
had no time for thought or composition, she said ; 
and she wrote none but so-called confidential letters. 
But the fact was that her missives sometimes would 
produce the strangest confusion. 

I remember her coming flying into my mother’s 
room one day with a letter in her hand. 

* She must be stark staring mad !’ she cried ex- 
citedly. ‘What am I to do with Jemima’s paupers? 
Was there ever such a misunderstanding?’ 


302 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


We tried to calm her, and begged for an explana- 
tion. I was a half-grown lad at the time. Auntie 
plunged into the subject. 

‘There was a poor sick woman with a handful 
of children whom I assisted in supporting, while the 
husband served his term for housebreaking. Now, 
Jemima wrote to me the other day that the convict 
had returned — that the wife had died, leaving him as 
helpless as any of his babes. Would I suggest what 
could be done ? 

‘ I did the nearest thing at hand, despatching some 
money and begging her to send particulars as to 
age, sex, and the rest of it ; I would try and find 
homes for them.’ 

‘ The sex of the husband, auntie ?’ I interposed 
roguishly. 

‘ Don’t interrupt me with your nonsense, Philip. 
It is too much of a mess, and I am sure a great 
trouble to dispose of Can you imagine that stupid 
Jemima sending me the whole lot of them bodily? 
There they are in the housekeeper’s room, eight 
blessed .souls, imagining I have homes for them in 
my pocket. That hulking convict, above all things 
smelling horribly of tobacco. What am I to do ?’ j 

‘ Perhaps you meant to write for particulars, and I 
wrote for the family instead !’ I suggested. i 

‘ How can you be so stupid, Philip ? I am sure 'a 
my letters are as plain as ink ; no child could mis- 
take their meaning. J emima must have lost her head ! ’ 

The convict and his offspring, meanwhile, were 
solacing themselves in the housekeeper’s room, over- 
flowing with thanks, and nothing seemed further 
from their minds than the idea of ever leaving again 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


303 


Aunt Betty meantime running tc and fro asking dis- 
tractedly — * What should she do with them ?* 

However, she found my father coming to the 
rescue, and the misunderstanding proved prolific of 
blessing, inasmuch as the former housebreaker was 
before long sta*ted in a course of honesty, and his 
flock of children cared for. 

You have followed me so far, and I have told you 
that evil desires, vainly seeking to be gratified, are an 
; ever-burning fire here ; but to what extent this is 
' true you can scarcely conceive, not knowing how 
they are inflamed. It is imagination of course to 
which that horrible office pertains. Even on earth 
imagination may gain a dangerous ascendency; but in 
hell it wields a terrible sway. It becomes a monster 
I of tyranny here, the soul being its helpless prey. 

; Nothing more easy after all than to clothe gloat- 
j ing fancy with a certain amount of reality ; bring 
I the conscious will to bear, and you have your desire 
' — after a fashion — the table to glut at, the wine, the 
I dice, the handsome woman you covet. Hell is full 
of such things. But all is worse than illusion. Oh, 
let me be silent ! It is adding mockery to torture. 
You understand me, I think. The crime of Ixion 
and the fiery wheel of his agony form together a 
true symbol of the condition of multitudes of the 
lost 

Can you doubt that I am referring to my own 
experience ? Have I not told you that I was a 
man of sensual bent, and a slave to passion ? Do 
you imagine that either is mortified here? Ah, let 
me refrain 1 


304 


LETTERS FROM HELL, 


I am no better than others here, except, perhaps 
that at times I am overwhelmed with shame. How 
ib it possible for one who loved Lily — who was loved 
by her — to sink so low ! 

Yet there is one difference marking me out from 
at least some others. I have a sure means of 
recovering myself from the tyranny alluded to, 
imagination itself being the means to that end. 
Whenever the pure exalted image of Lily rises on 
my soul, all evil passions are assuaged ; the wild 
conflagration ceases, and once again I seem a human 
soul. . . . 

' I am so tired, Philip,’ she said, softly. And 
forthwith I stopped the mule that carried her. As 
a tender mother her ailing child, I lifted her from 
the saddle, depositing he** gently on the mossy 
ground. We were near a bridge leading over Brook 
Cedron. 

* So tired,’ Oh, the sad sad story contained in 
these words ! But seventeen, and always tired ! I 
had closed my heart to the painful testimony ; I 
would not believe that so young a life might oe 
taken. Yet I could not drive anxiety away entirely; 
again and again I was forced to face the dread 
reality. ‘ Life will probably ebb away in hemor- 
rhage,’ an English physician at Jaffa had said. * Be 
very careful ; any exertion or emotional excitement 
may bring it on.’ 

And I was careful, keeping her as the apple of 
my eye. That journey through the Holy Lano, 
undertaken at her own urgent entreaty, was but one 
continuous attempt to make her happy. She was 
the centre of a circle of love into which nothing 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


30s 


harmful was allowed to enter. That I served her 
was natural. But Turks and Bedouins e/en looked 
upon her with worshipping awe. Ah I deathless 
time, love and pain abounding ! 

Wherever we went, she found holy memories of 
Him to whom her heart had been given ; He speak- 
ing to her through the Bible she loved. Nay, it 
was He that accompanied her from place to place. 
Her happiness was supreme. * I seem to be in 
heaven already,’ she would say to me. To her the 
sun was rising and setting as in a dream, transfigur- 
ing all earthly things. The fleeting hours to her 
were as moments anticipating eternity. 

It came, the dreaded spectre, like a thunderbolt 
from a cloudless sky — not carrying her off, but leav- 
ing me hopeless with fear. 

She recovered a little, but what prospect was 
there of returning health ? Her mind was easy, but 
anxiety with me was great As a drooping lily she 
was, fair still and fragrant, holding her cup prayer- 
fully while she was able, but fast closing her petals 
in the faintness of death. ‘ Lily is tired,’ — the 
Heavenly Gardener was transplanting her to His 
Paradise above. 

We were halting by the royal brook — Lily re- 
membering David and a greater King that passed 
there. The scenery is present with me even now — 
every stone, every shrub of that hallowed spot 

Moriah was in view, where Solomon’s temple 
once stood, and that other temple built by Herod, 
where Omar’s mosque now lifts her minarets proudly 
To our right lay the valley of Jehoshaphat, deep 
and narrow, a cleft between towering mountain!, the 

30 


3o6 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


rocks on the one side being fretted with innumer- 
able caves, the sepulchres of old, of kings and pro- 
phets. On the Mount of Corruption to our left a 
poverty stricken Jewish village clings to t he steep 
incline. At our feet was the stony bed of Cedron, 
panting for its dried up waters ; the Mount of Olives 
was rising beyond, a succession of gentle curves, 
leading onward to Gethsemane. A group of ancient 
olive trees marks that sacred spot. The setting sun 
was casting deep shadows, broken by streaks of 
dazzling light, across the valley, the top of Olivet 
only glowing with a subdued radiance that was 
grateful to the eye. 

The place where we rested was in the shade 
entirely. A gentle breeze, but cool and refreshing, 
was playing about us. Lily sat still with folded 
hands, looking listless ; she was tired — tired to death 
perhaps. Her eyes closed. Oh how white she 
looked ! and pure as a dying Madonna. But more 
alarming than her pallor were those sudden flushes 
overspreading her features, leaving her more white 
than before. 

The mule and his attendant had composed them- 
selves to sleep at a little distance. ‘ Happy boy ! ’ I 
said, looking at him, adding involuntarily, ' Happy 
animal ! ’ The Turkish escort engaged for our safety 
lay smoking the inevitable hookah, in blissful ignor- 
ance apparently of landscape beauty or human grief 

Silence was becoming oppressive. My Lily was 
not asleep, though her eyes were closed, and I turned 
to her gently with a question : ‘ What are you think 
ing of?’ 

‘ My sins,* she said, looking at me. 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


307 


* Your sins ! * I echoed, refraining from what 1 
was going to add, 1 :ist I should pain her. . . . ‘ O 
Lily, my pious child, they can neither be grievous 
nor many.' 

*Yes, Philip!’ she said eagerly ; ‘there is no one 
good save He. We have all come short of the 
glory, but God only knows how much we have sinned.’ 

‘ But what makes you think of sin just now ? ’ 
She looked up surprised. The gift was hers at any 
time to open my eyes. I knew what she meant 
My gaze went abroad over the peaceful expanse. 
Truly what spot could be more fitted to convince 
man of his own worthlessness? I bowed my head 
in shame. 

‘ Dear friend,’ she continued, tremulous with emo- 
tion, ‘ at this very moment I feel reproved ; even here 
wrong thoughts will assail the heart A sudden 
longing had come to me that I might be spared a 
little longer, but I forgot to add, “ Thy will be done I” 
You see that was wrong, for we ought to yield our- 
selves to Him entirely, believing that our Father 
knows best, else we cannot be His children.’ 

An indescribably bitter feeling of anger and self- 
will rose in my heart ; what knew I of giving up the 
will for the gain of sonship ? My eye involuntarily 
sought the Mussulman, and the evil spirit said : 
‘ Better be a Turk outright ! ’ But chastening sor- 
row was at hand, and I said gently : 

‘ Surely you may live ; do not sadden your heart 
with such thoughts. O Lily, my good little sister, 
my own, think of the love that would keep you 
here I ’ 

‘ I do,’ she said, with a smile like sunbeams 


3o8 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


breaking through clouds, ‘ love here is precici's, but 
a better love awaits me beyond.’ 

Another pause, but I would not— I could not be 
silent, and I continued : 

‘The desire to live cannot be wrong, sweetest 
Lily. Let it be very present with you, and you will 
see it fulfilled. God Himself has planted the love of 
life in our hearts ; it cannot be sinful, then, to cling 
to it. Do not wrong yourself ; there never was a 
less self-willed being than you, so unselfish and good.’ 

‘ So the brother’s love would think,’ she said, 
looking at me tenderly ; ‘ but you are right in this ; 
my feelings were not selfish though self-willed. It 
is not for my own sake I would wish to live — I was 
thinking of others. Philip, darling, can you under- 
stand that I would like to live for your sake ? I 
know you will miss me more than any — you, my one, 
my truest friend ! ’ 

Had I been alone with her I would have sunk at 
her feet in a transport of worship ; as it was I could 
but stammer : ‘ Lily, I shall die if you leave me ! ’ 

Again we spoke not. But silence now was 
sweetened. I had seen heaven opened. 

Her face was veiled in solemn seriousness. I 
knew she was battling it out in her soul. But even 
the trouble of conflict could not cloud her trust in 
God. She saw the palm of victory, reaching forth 
her hand to seize it, for I heard her murmur : ‘ Thy 
will. Lord, not mine ! ’ 

Yet the crown was not fully hers at that moment 
it seemed ; she rose suddenly, saying with quivering 
lips : 'It must be sin which prevents the full gift of 
peace Surely it is wrong to cling to life ! . . But J 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


309 


am ready to go . . . and I feel stronger now. Let 
us move on.’ 

I took hold of her hand with a gentle pressure, 
saying: — I know not how I could frame such words! — 
* Lily, my own, it is not the world you feel bound to 
— and surely such love as yours is far from sin ! 
How can you feel guilty and troubled ?’ 

She looked at me, with a heavenly light gleaming 
in her eyes. I felt it at the time, but understood 
not such beauty, not knowing the victory it promised. 

‘ I do feel sinful, but not troubled,’ she said, ‘ for 
I can trust Him, and He knows it. . . . Look, Philip,’ 
she continued, turning to the dried-up brook, * can you 
count these pebbles, great and small ? Innumerable 
as they, are the sins of the world. But the foot of 
Him has passed here when He sorrowed even unto 
death. The sins of all were laid upon Him — mine 
too. He has taken them away ; they cannot trouble 
me !’ 

We went on beyond Cedron, ascending Olivet, 
and reaching Gethsemane. The garden is enclosed 
with a low stone wall, and contains eight olive trees 
of great antiquity. The spot where Judas betrayed 
his Lord with a kiss is fenced in separately, and 
even the Turks deem it accursed. We stopped 
beneath those trees, the same, no doubt, which saw 
ti e Saviour wrestle in awful agony when He drank 
the cup that men might go free. 

Lily was kneeling in earnest devotion, praying 
for submission, and, I doubt not, praying for me. 
Peace was given her there and then, shining like a 
halo from her brow as she rose — * Thy will be done I’ 

But my soul was barren of prayer. I felt ready 


310 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


to curse my weakness which had agreed to this pil- 
grimage through the Holy Land. I longed for our 
far-off home ; life there, I imagined, might have 
smiled upon us, whereas death stared me in the face 
at every turn on the sacred soil. 

We took the shorter way back, passing St 
Stephen’s Gate, and following the Via Dolorosa 
through the town. That road is full of holiest 
reminiscences ; the praetorium wb^re the crown of 
thorns was platted and the Holy One mocked by 
sinful men — the * Ecce Homo’ arch, where Pilate 
pointed to the Saviour saying, ‘ Behold the man ! ’ — 
the spot where Mary, meeting her divine Son as H( 
carried the Cross, fainted for grief — and that othe. 
spot where the Lord, turning to the wailing womei 
that followed Him, said: ‘Daughters of Jerusalem^ 
weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and foi 
your children!’ — and lastly, the place where the 
saintly Veronica wiped His holy forehead with her 
veil. Here we turned aside ; but the road leads on 
to Calvary. 

This then was the Via Dolorosa ! A road of 
sorrows for me as well. But not of Him I thought 
who once went this way as the Lamb to be slain. 
I grieved for myself only, and not a thought of 
comfort I found on that road. How, then,, should I 
be comforted here? 

It seems strange that I never thought of visiting 
the so-called city of the Jews, which is one of the 
greatest sights in hell. It is not spoken of as Jeru- 
salem here ; but I doubt not it is the actual city 
which bore that name on earth. At any rate, I can 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


3»l 


never think of it without straightway calling to mind 
the city 1 knew. 

A burning desire laid hold of me suddenly to go 
to Jerusalem. What though it was a town of sorrows 
to me, I had Idly there. It seems in my power 
once again to see the places I visited with her ; to 
traverse the narrow valley of Jehoshaphat ; to rest 
by the bridge leading over Cedron ; to follow the 
road of sorrows from Gabbatha to Golgotha ; and, if 
so minded, to lay me dowm by the w'ay at the rich 
man’s gate — another Lazarus. 

And yet if that city be Jerusalem in truth, it 
must be a city ruined arid undone. There must be 
a great difference between Jerusalem of old and 
Jerusalem after its fall. But what is that to me? 
Whatever the city may have come to here, it cannot 
be so utterly changed that I shall not recognise the 
places I once saw with Lily by my side. 

I cannot rest ; and though light be fast decreas- 
ing, I am urged to go. What though it be but vain 
imaginings w'hich drive me thither, there is a miser- 
able satisfaction in obeying the behest. 

But let me make inquiries first concerning that 
strangest of cities. Far away though it b^, surely 
there are people here who can tell me smiething 
about it 1 


LETTER XXVIII 


Far away, and separated from the continent of hell 
by an immeasurable waste, lies the great city of the 
J ews — a world apart. And there, in perpetual cycles, 
the dread history repeats itself, from the catastrophe 
of Golgotha to the final destruction. Upon the 
sacking of Jerusalem the whole is engulfed in dark- 
ness ; but daylight reappearing, the wheel of history 
has run back, once more to begin the awful period. 

Any one entering the city as the night is dispelled 
finds the Jewish people overwhelmed with horror at 
the recent deed. The awful words keep sounding 
ftbout them: ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’ 
They seem aware that a terrible thing has been done 
— that a terrible retribution is at hand. Jerusalem 
trembles. Those who have taken part in bringing 
about that most fearful of crimes ever perpetrated 
by man, but whose consciences are not seared en- 
tirely, raise the question whether, after all. He was 
the Son of God whom they crucified ; they smite 
upon their breast and rend their garments. 

Even the chief priests and elders, hardened though 
they be, are disturbed But they flatter themselves 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


313 


with the consolation that the sepulchre is made sure. 
As the great Sabbath breaks, behold them going 
forth to the garden with Caiaphas at their head. 
Pale are their faces and bloodshot their eyes ; they 
grind their teeth, but Satan upholds them ! The 
three crosses from Golgotha look down upon them ; 
but not one of those men dares lift an eye to the 
place where they hanged Him on the tree. Where 
is their priestly dignity ? See how they snatch up 
their long clothing and hasten apace to the tomb ! 

Having reached it they seem satisfied : it is all 
as it should be. The watch is there, the seal un- 
touched, and the stone in its place. 

The great Sabbath has come. But never was 
there less of Sabbath joy in Jerusalem. A cloud is 
upon the people ; they all wish the festal time were 
past Their thoughts roam away from symbolic 
action. The unleavened bread has lost its sweet- 
ness ; the blood of the paschal lamb is clotted in 
their hands as they endeavour to put it upon the 
lintel of their houses. The angel of death does not 
pass by ; he is among them ; they know it in their 
hearts. 

But see. they shake off the stupor. As a stroke 
of lightning the news has fallen upon them that the 
Crucified One has risen. The words of life sound 
as a death -knell in their ears. But is it true? 
Corroborative evidence is loud on all sides ; there 
is no gainsaying the wondrous event They hasten 
towards the sepulchre. It is empty, and the stone 
rolled from the door. 

Pilate is one of the very first to whom the news 
is taken. His evil conscience has told him to ex- 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


5U 


pect the worst ; and lo, the worst has happened f 
There is a God to raise the righteous, even from the 
grave, and to destroy the workers of iniquity. Pilate 
trembles at every sound ; each moment, he thinks, 
must bring the avenger to his door. He looks for 
his wife, the abject coward, and hears her cry : ‘ My 
dream — O my dream ! Alas, that thou deliveredst 
this Just One into their hands !* 

But the high priests and elders are not so easily 
daunted. They quickly spread the tale that the body 
of the Nazarene had been stolen away by His dis- 
ciples, who invented, they said, the story of His 
resurrection. They bribed the watchmen to accuse 
themselves before Pilate of having slept at their 
f)Ost ; and the cowardly governor is glad to accept 
the lie, thrusting the unhappy men into prison to 
ease his mind. 

But the marvellous account is not so easily sup- 
pressed. Again and again it is said, the Son of Man 
is risen indeed, and has been seen by many ! And 
the chief priests know not how to help themselves ; 
the high council forbids the very mention of Him 
who was crucified. 

By degrees the terror lessens ; life in the city 
runs its wonted course. Like startled sheep the 
people follow their accustomed leaders, and these 
fail not to apply the balm of self-righteousness to 
every wound. Hypocrisy flourishes yielding the 
fruits of death. The whited sepulchres spread the 
corruption hidden within, and soon the whole body 
of the people has sickened with uncleanness. It is 
fait becoming a dead carcass, and the eagles, the 
worms, will have it for their prey. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


3*5 


Pilate has disappeared. There have been other 
governors after him, more capable of ruling than he. 
And the people find it out to their hurt. They are 
a butt to cruelty and derision, till they can no 
longer bear it. The flames of insurrection shoot 
aloft, the heated passions breaking loose ; but 
Jerusalem’s worst enemy is within her own walls — 
the fury of discord. Wildly the people rave against 
each other ; no crime so hideous but it is committed 
against very brothers. Jerusalem’s last hour is at 
hand. The enemy storms her walls, breathing ven- 
geance and destruction ; the end has come of trouble 
as of hatred — an awful end. The horrors of that 
siege have never been equalled. 

A night of death envelops the scene ; the history is 
played out, to begin again with each recurring dawn. 

The day was far advanced when I entered the 
city. The final catastrophe was at hand. The 
enmity within had reached its height ; hopeless dis- 
cord was rampant. Hypocrisy and hatred against 
the common enemy without were the only bonds 
uniting the seething mass. Deceit, treachery, un- 
chaste living, perjury, murder, and all manner of 
sorcery, showed their unblushing front. And yet to 
outward appearance it continued the proud city of 
David. Gloriously as ever the holy hill of Zion 
lifted her battlemenis, and on Moriah rose the 
temple in splendour unsurpassed. Piety in long 
garments stood about the streets, making prayers for 
a pretence ; crowds of people passed to and fro 
from the synagogues. Devoutness in fact made 
itself conspicuous everywhere. Among the pious 
inscriptions adorning the dwellings by way of proving 


LETTERS PAOM HELL. 


516 

the peculiar sanctity of their inhabitants, I was struck 
with one especially which occurred far oftener than 
any other, so that I needs must take it as signifi- 
cant — Godliness is gam / It seemed, indeed, as if 
the people were running after both these jointly, 
looking upon godliness as a means, upon gain as 
the coveted result, and deeming no cunning too great 
to obtain it 

My heart quaked as I stole through the crowded 
streets. This, then, was Jerusalem ! Oh how dif- 
ferent from the city I had known, and yet how like ! 
It was the same old Jerusalem of the time when the 
Saviour went about in it teaching and healing. The 
Saviour — ay, at every step the thought of Him rose 
to my mind, to the forgetting even of Lily. Here 
surely there must be men who can tell of Him. But 
first of all I would follow that road from Gabbatha 
to Golgotha — alas, with other feelings than might 
have been possible on earth ! I needed a guide, and 
stopped the first Jew I met on the way. But he 
broke from me gruffly with a sneer, so did another, 
and yet another. And presently I was buffeted on 
even mentioning the Via Dolorosa. I suppose they 
took it for Latin and believed me to be a Roman. 
At first I saw in their rudeness merely their pro- 
bable dislike to me as a stranger ; before long, how- 
ever, I could not but accept the fact that in all that 
city no one could be found who had any knowledge 
concerning the Son of Mary. He was forgotten — 
forgotten entirely. False prophets had risen in His 
stead, to whom they had listened. 

There was nothing left for me but to try and 
find the way unaided. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


317 


I turned away in the direction of Brook Cedroi\ 
finding the very place by the bridge where once I 
rested with Lily. On that spot I would rest me 
now — alas, rest I could not , I only stopped I 

There I sat, silent and alone, but content was far 
away. Memories of Lily were neither more vivid 
nor more real ; longing only was increased tenfold. 
I had been anxious to revisit the holy scenes, and 
found them fraught with disappointment. But since 
existence to me was one great disillusion, what 
mattered it ! J erusalem was but a grave, forsaken 
of the Spirit, estranged from God, a prey to hatred, 
a dead body given over to the undying worm. The 
souls peopling it were the ghosts of an awful past, 
living in the destruction they had called down. 
What could I have found there to yield me even a 
shadow of content ? I had come thither to find 
myself in a like damnation. Fool that I was to 
expect it otherwise ! But we never learn by experi- 
ence ; we did not on earth — we cannot in hell ! 

Faint at heart, I grovelled my way back to the 
city, and came upon scenes of excitement. A new 
governor had arrived, the last but one appointed by 
Rome, and was making a splendid entry. 

I was anxious to see something of one of the 
most remarkable cities in hell, the city of Politicians, 
called also the town of Injustice. Thither I moved. 

On the road I met the strangest procession — a 
most extraordinary machine being wheeled along b) 
a rabble conspicuous for scarlet caps, and howling 
frightfully. On the top of the structure I behelc^ 
sitting as on a throne a man wearing the most 


3i8 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


elegant apparel of Paris fashion and last century 
style. The hair slightly powdered and carefully 
arranged, the necktie scrupulously white and em- 
broidered, the velvet coat both costly and genteel, 
the cuffs of lace setting off hands delicately shaped 
like a woman’s, the silken hose, the shoes trim with 
bow and buckle, — would one not take such outward 
signs as the index of a disposition fastidiously 
refined ? But no, he is satiated with blood, worse 
than Nero himself, his triumphal car on the present 
occasion being an ambulant guillotine. 

Have you recognised him? 

Still thirsting for blood, this graceful image of 
gentility ; but hell yields nothing for the quenching 
of thirst, not even blood. He is always looking at 
people’s necks, as shown by his very compliments, 
such as they are. ‘ Sir,’ he says, ‘ your neck is very 
fine. Madam, allow me to congratulate you upon a 
lovely throat ! ’ Followed by his creatures, a very 
hangman’s company, he likes to ride abroad among 
the people, upon whom he looks as a kind of raw 
material for his philanthropic experiments. But the 
common folk make faces at him, calling him a fool 
possessed of a harmless mania. No one is afraid 
of him now, for power over necks is not given him 
here ; the unsatisfied craving is his punishment also. 
Still he has a circle of friends and followers who 
share his notions with regard to the general rotten* 
ness of society and the need of sanguinary revolution. 
They are sorry for his disappointment, and whenever 
he has fixed upon a place for his beloved guillotine, 
they very kindly offer him their necks for decapita* 
tion ; the procedure, mind you, being without hurt 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


319 


or harm to themselves, — the sort of thing which used 
to be done in Astley’s theatre. But their good- 
natured make-believe cannot satisfy him, simply 
because there is no shedding of blood. 

It was a long journey I had undertaken, and I 
passed by a town looking a very necropolis. Dark 
and mute it rose upon a dismal flat. No window, 
no door, showed life within ; not a sound was heard, 
and though gates stood open not a soul came forth. 
Once, twice I walked around, — not a living creature 
in sight. I kept wondering, till a stray ghost ex- 
plained to me the strange appearance. It was the 
town of the Inquisition, he said ; adding that not 
long since a powerful king of Spain, with unheard-of 
splendour and a great retinue, had made his entry 
into that town. 

‘ Shall I, or shall I not ?* 

I came to the conclusion that where his Catholic 
Majesty had gone I might venture. 

But at the gate I came upon a placard sufficiently 
startling. Thus it ran : — 

‘autodaf^ of peculiar interest I 

‘Whereas his most Catholic Majesty, the powerful 
protector of the Holy Inquisition, has graciously promised 
to be burnt alive, after most royal and exquisite torture; 
and whereas six hundred heretics will wait on his Majesty 
at the s^ake : the sublime spectacle of their witnessing his 
passing to the nether fire is herewith announced, the setting 
in scene being strictly in keeping with helL* 

A strange announcement to be sure I But no 
d*'^bt he had come to his own place, that much- 


320 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


lamented king of Spain, and the town A^as even now 
preparing to greet him right royally. 

Should I indeed go in ? I hesitated. Still ^ 
doubted not that even the worst in that city might 
be borne ; and, on the other hand, that placard 
exercised a kind of demoniac influence over my 
imagination. I must see that sight ! 

This, then, was the second ‘ holy * city I had the 
honour of visiting, and in truth there is a peculiar 
likeness between them. What the City of Destruc- 
tion is to the Jewish people, the town of the Inqui- 
sition may be said to be to Christendom. 

A shudder went through me as I entered. Auto- 
matically the gates swung on their hinges, closing 
with an ominous shriek. Those gates, strange to 
say, stand open like a yawning grave to him who 
approaches, falling to behind him who has gone in. 
There I was in the town of crooked streets and 
death-breathing atmosphere. The high houses have 
the fewest of windows, and those are provided with 
iron bars, prison -like. Horror seemed to dwell 
within. Mysterious figures went gliding through 
the gloomy thoroughfares, wrapped in long cowls, 
and hoods over their heads, with two round staring 
holes foi the eyes. Are they dead men risen from 
their graves ? And here and there a procession 
meets me, either of dismal penitence, offering the 
most horrible examples of fanatical self-torture, or of 
thanksgiving, more dismal still, accompanying con- 
demned sufferers to the scene of their public agony. 
Pomp and vanity here also, forsooth ! But the only 
thing which brings life into the stagnation of that 
city is an autodaf^. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


321 


The inhabitants one and all are people who at 
one time or another were servants of the Inquisi- 
tion. Others may enter if they are so minded, 
I myself being one of the few foolhardy who did 
so. 

This city of the Inquisition is as a grave enclosing 
a terrible secret. For no one knows who, in accord- 
ance with the verdict of an unknown tribunal, shall 
be the next to be dragged to most horrible torture. 
No one is safe, not even those who hold high 
position in the mysterious community — possibly the 
most zealous votaries of a fanatical church. The 
very members of the secret tribunal are not safe 1 — 
for he who lately sentenced his neighbour to cruel 
and exquisite torture may be the very one to suffer 
next. Their fate lays hold of them secretly and 
swiftly — fate ? nay, but a just retribution. They 
are dragged from their hiding-places and brought to 
the bar. They shall give an account of their faith. 
They are utterly unable ; no one can do so in hell. 
They are judged accordingly ; but, be it noticed, 
their very judges are equally unable to confess 
t^ieir faith. 

And now for torture ! Whatever of horror, of 
cruelty, has been invented on behalf of the Inquisition, 
is all known here and applied to the fullest extent 
The victims are disembodied spirits : true, but their 
Imagination is keenly alive to the torment. On 
earth they raved agdnst hapless humanity ; now 
they rave against one another, each being judge and 
victim in turn. They wind up with the stake. 
But although the fire has no flame, and although the 
niserable wretches are unable to burn, they none 


322 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the less suffer in the spirit the excruciating agony of 
dying on a slowly consuming pyre. 

The end of all is horror unspeakable. Souls do 
not live here ; they tremble and quake. Even I 
shared in the common sensation, although I tried to 
console myself that in such respect, at any rate, I 
was guiltless, having never joined, directly or in- 
directly, in religious persecution. But no matter-— 
since I was there, I seemed in a like damnation. 

How frightful was the silence — the lull before an 
awful storm ! For the city was preparing for the 
climax of her existence. It was plainly evident 
that the aiUodaf^ was about to take place. Muffled 
figures kept gliding from the houses, moving away in a 
self-same direction. I need but follow them to reach 
the scene. But as my soul called up the picture of 
what was to be acted by the most Catholic king 
amid six hundred heretics, a horror fell upon me. 
I could not — I dared not — witness the spectacle. 
I turned and fled as if death in the shape of the 
holy Hermandad itself were at my heels. Happily 
I escaped from the town, the cold drops on my fore- 
head, my knees shaking with anguish. I fell in a 
swoon as soon as the terrible gate closed behind me 


LETTER XXIX. 

Gigantic structures in earth’s parlance may mean 
the Pyramids, or the great works of Babylon and 
Nineveh, or some Chinese wall of later date. I 
have not seen any of these wonders, or their ruins 
either, but I venture to assert that their importance 
dwindles into nothing by the side of the growing 
edifice called the city of Politicians here. And 
that fabric is raised in a single day, meaning 
the space between one hell night and another. I 
call it a day ; it may be months, years — I know not. 
‘ City,’ let me tell you, is an inappropriate term, since, 
although a dwelling-place of many, it is but a single 
mass, ever added to, but never finished. Between 
one darkness and another, it reaches colossal 
dimensions, to break down at last in a heap of 
shapeless ruin. Night puts a stop to the work, which 
is begun afresh with every succeeding dawn ; yet not 
quite afresh, the foundations being the same once for 
all. Indeed it is they which cause the ever-recurring 
downfall ; for, extensive as they are, covering an 
area of unlimited vastness, they are hopelessly 
rotten. Who laid them is a mystery ; if one may 


324 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


guess, it must have been Satan himself. But however 
that may be, those foundations have survived through 
ages of superstructure and ruin. There are passages 
through them in all directions, and holes where the 
workers dwell — something like the catacombs. 

The * city ’ then rises on this base. All the 
statesmen in hell have duty here as master-builders, 
and of workmen there is no lack ; millions there are, 
— hell continually disgorging them on this spot, and 
like bees they bring their building materials with 
them, working together in virtue of a common 
instinct like those insects. 

You have heard it said of this man or of that, 
that his conscience is turned to a stone. Now this 
is no mere figure of speech ; such sayings embody 
an awful truth. It is a terrible thing, my friend, to 
have a stone where the conscience ought to be ! 
Every deceitful act, every deed of injustice or want 
of mercy, helps to petrify your conscience. And 
some people’s hearts are so deadened that every 
righteous feeling has been displaced by a stone of 
that kind. No one is free from these dead weights, — 
no one who comes hither at least, — and some drag 
such loads about with them, that the marvel is they 
continue alive. Now this city is built of such stones. 
Some souls there are whose one occupation it is to 
free their hearts of the petrifying load. Free ? but 
it is hopeless trying; and though stones upon stones 
be added to the rising structure, the stony heart 
cannot here be changed. One finds this out by 
experience only ; but some there are, so loaded with 
injustice, and so anxious to get rid of it, that no 
experience will convince them. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


321- 


The head and corner-stones are furnished by th*'. 
master-builders, the former experts in statesmanship. 
It is simply astounding to behold the overwhelming 
weights produced by men of their antecedents. In- 
deed, one requires the insight obtained here in order 
to form an idea as to the extent of treachery, in- 
justice, and subtle craft they were capable of in the 
days of their earthly life. Among them are to be 
found the greatest wrongdoers the world ever pro- 
duced. No one has a more unlimited scope for 
evil than statesmen, not excepting kings ; and their 
responsibility is awful. For a man might be born 
heir to some crown and could not help it ; but no 
man can be a statesman without of his own free 
will undertaking a ruler’s duties. They knew what 
they engaged in and have no excuse. The welfare 
of millions was in their hand — the power of blessing 
or cursing ; and how did they use it ? Look at 
history — nay, examine the present time. They 
seem to believe, these men, that in the interest of 
politics, as they call it, any amount of evildoing will 
pass. Justice? — it is an empty sound. The welfare 
of nations ? — the power of the state is more than 
that. They believe themselves exempt from all 
laws, moral or divine, — imagining God, if He judges 
them at all, will judge them according to some 
special standard of right and wrong. Treacherous 
dealing, tyranny, and armed force were their chief 
ideas of governing, no matter how many unknown 
subjects might suffer cruel hardship. And behold, 
the world’s perversity judges them by the glittering 
tinsel of success, calling him greatest who out- 
manoeuvres all others in perfidy — diplomacy is the 


52b 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


current expression ; but things are called by theii 
true name here. It is quite apparent in hell that 
some of the greatest crimes earth ever witnessed 
were committed in behalf of the so-called higher 
arts of diplomacy, and that some of the greatest 
delinquents are to be found among the starred and 
gartered office-bearers who are the right hand ol 
kings. 

But the chief duty of these master-builders consists 
in seeing the profusion of material, their own and 
that of others, properly disposed. This offers real 
difficulty ; for each of these ex -statesmen very 
naturally has his own plan to go by. No two of 
them ever agree, even though they should find them- 
selves stationed side by side. But sometimes they 
are separated, say a hundred miles from one another. 
Imagine, then, the circumference of the city, and try 
to imagine these statesmen — one here, one there — 
building awa}^, heedless of each other. This is the 
reason why the state is never accomplished. I say 
‘state,’ for the latent idea is to form a state, and 
when it is finished to choose a king. There are 
numbers of landless sovereigns loafing about the out- 
skirts of the city, dreadfully anxious to be chosen 
I have spoken of those miserable crown -bearers in a 
former letter. 

Our statesmen are sufficiently aware of the diffi- 
culty of their undertaking ; they are for ever send- 
ing despatches in all directions, now cajoling, now 
threatening, as they hope to gain their end. And 
their ambassadors creep about from one court — I 
mean building-station — t^ another; but no amount 
of diplomatic perfidy avails. And nothing remains but 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


327 


to call a congress at last. But since there is no 
neutral ground in all the city itself, they fix upon a 
certain mud island in the black rive** which laves 
the base of this building ground. In order to gain 
that island they have no choice but to try the experi- 
ment of swimming. Now one would imagine our 
noble diplomatists to be very loth to let the filthy 
watei touch their august persons. But far from it 
They like it ! (You remember that the black river 
is fed by all the refuse of injustice and falsehood 
oozing down from the world.) It is quite a sight, I 
assure you, to see them sprawling in the horrible 
water. They have reached their own element, it is 
plain ; and like a set of schoolboys in a mill-pond, 
they flounder about quite lustily. 

No sooner are they landed, however, than behold 
our dignified statesmen ! The congress is inaugurated 
vith due solemnity, each plenipotentiary falling into 
his place with singular adroitness, and agreeing with 
peculiar suavity that a common plan of action must 
be arrived at. But there unanimity stops. Innum- 
erable proposals are made and rejected, mutual 
jealously rendering concord impossible. One motion 
presently meets with acceptance : let each representa- 
tive try and work out his part towards the general 
aim. Great hopes are aired, and the result is truly 
ridiculous. The completed scheme proves the most 
deplorable farrago ; but no one is prepared to give 
up his individual position, and the end is confusion. 
Vainly the most impressive speeches are delivered 
about the incomparable benefits of simple honesty in 
politics ; about the infernal balance of power, without 
which the greatest revolutions and most hopeless com* 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


$28 


plications are to be dreaded ; about the eternal laws ol 
the nature of things ; about the duties of politics in a 
beneficent sense, and the moral power of the ruling 
creed in modern times, which brands with infamy 
mere brutal force ; about the high state of culture 
arrived at in this nineteenth century, which alone 
ought to govern all social questions ; about principles 
of action which should not be set aside even in hell ; 
about sacred rights which must be upheld at any 
sacrifice. In short, no parliament on earth could 
develop greater bombast than a meeting of ex- 
politicians here. But result there is none, and 
nothing remains but to raise the congress. 

Before separating, however, there is the usual 
exchange of compliments — a profusion of gratitude 
for mutual helpfulness and invaluable assistance in 
unravelling difficult points. The congress, in fact, is 
pronounced a success ; the trumpets are sounded, 
and newspapers sing pjeans to the deep penetration, 
the rare discernment, and ingenious sagacity of the 
great leaders in whom was vested the confidence of 
nations. 

The plenipotentiaries, duly elated, retire with 
amiable expressions of friendly feeling on behalf of 
their respective cabinets, which, however, does not 
prevent them, in swimming back, from casting up 
the muddy waters against each other. So much for 
the congress. 

And the building continues. Time passes. It is 
long since the radiance of Paradise has last been 
seen ; light is ebbing away. But they build and 
build out of their own stony hearts and consciences. 
The structure arises, an informal mass ; the higher 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


329 

it reaches, the plainer becomes the fact that it cannot 
stand. They have just about attained the crowning 
cupola, which is achieved by dint of innumerable 
strokes of policy — when, behold, the towering struc- 
ture collapses with a thundering crash, heard in the 
farthermost regions of hell ! Each stone is flying 
back to its owner, and cries of despair die away in 
a common wail. Nothing remains but the gigantic 
foundation ; the builders have fled in horror, leaving 
the abject kings cowering in misery, like Marius of 
old on the ruins of Carthage. It is night, and hell 
is overwhelmed with the stillness of death, the teirors 
of darkness ever and anon being broken by the 
wailings of desolate kings 


LETTER XXX. 


Light has all but vanished. My thoughts keep 
wandering back to Lily — my one chance of attaining 
at least a semblance of peace. 

How sweetly she bore up against illness while 
she was able ; what patience, what fortitude was hers, 
to quiet our apprehensions ! 

But she grew restless at last. We thought of 
returning to Europe as speedily as possible ; she, 
however, entreated to be taken back to Bethlehem, 
and we could not refuse her. With all possible care 
we had set about the journey, yet were fearful of 
consequences on reaching our destination, though 
Lily assured us she felt better and only needed rest. 

Hours she passed reclining on a little terrace by the 
convent wall, where I had spread a canvas to protect 
her from the sun, I sitting near her ; indeed I hardly 
left her now, and may well say that I was sorrowful 
unto death. It was there that, for the last time, she 
told me a story, making an effort as though to prove 
her fitness. Her last story ! It was not the effort 
that overcame her — her happy smile, the sweet 
cadence of her voice said so — but death itself. . . . 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


33 ^ 


‘ The morning broke ; the mists of night that veiled 
the clefts between Olivet and Jerusalem yielded to 
the return of life. The Apostle James was coming 
down the mount, — he who was called the Just, the 
brother of the Lord. He had spent the night com- 
muning with God on the mountain, even as the 
Master had been wont And he loved the spot 
where his Lord had wrestled in agony. 

‘ The apostle was going home, but, quitting the 
olive grove, he tarried a little on the hillside over- 
looking the valley. The sun was about to rise, a 
fresh wind scattering the curling mists. Close by 
lay the garden of Gethsemane ; Brook Cedron mur- 
mured below. The royal city opposite lifted her 
brow — the proud temple sparkling in glory — the 
temple of which one stone soon would not be left 
upon another. 

‘But James hoped to be spared the awful sight, 
for he loved his town and people. A solemn fore- 
boding told him that he would have run his race 
before and won the crown — a happy foreboding, for 
more than town and people he loved his Lord, and 
to be with Him for ever would be the fulness of joy. 

‘ He was about to proceed when a woman came 
up to him, young and fair, but plunged in grief. 
She was but seventeen. Hot tears ran down her 
check, and she wrung her hands. Falling at the 
apostle’s feet, she implored him to pity her. Her 
husband, she said, had been struck down by a wast- 
ing fever, and was fast dying. Physicians could not 
help him, and they were very poor. He must die, 
alas, and they loved one another so truly ! 

‘ The apostle looked at her in silence, as though 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


J3a 

reading her inmost soul. He knew her, for she had 
been present repeatedly when he had proclaimed the 
good tidings of grace. But faith had not yet taken 
root in her heart ; she clung to the world, and the 
love of self was strong. It seemed hard to give up 
the world in the flower of youth, and harder still to 
yield self The old man continued gazing at the 
young wonian silently. She felt the power of his 
look, and was troubled. For with all tenderness 
there was in his eye a solemn seriousness, a holy 
influence over souls which is born of God. At last 
he spoke : 

‘ “ Woman, do you love him truly ? ” 

‘“Yea, Father, with all my heart,” replied she 
tremblingly. 

‘ “ As much as yourself ? ” continued the apostle. 

‘ “ Oh far more ! ” cried she, sobs breaking her 
voice. 

‘ “ It is well, my daughter ; there is a means by 
which you may save your husband’s life. You may 
think it hard, but remember it is the only means ! 
Go about from house to house, begging charity for 
him ! ” 

‘ “ Alas, Father, how should alms save him from 
dying ? ” 

‘ “ It is not alms of money you shall ask for, but 
alms of time. All the days, or parts of days, which 
good people for the sake of charity will yield out of 
their own lives, shall be given to your husband.” 

‘ The sorrowful wife thought within herself that 
at all events some people were inclined to charit)% and 
that most valued money far more than time ; that, 
while cleaving to mammon, they wasted many a 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


333 


precious day quite recklessly. She thanked the 
apostle, and, gathering courage, went her way. 

‘ And presently she was seen going about Jeru- 
salem, telling her story from door to door with 
humble entreaty, speaking of her sick husband whom 
she lov^ed, and of the servant of God who had 
directed her to the pity of charitable men. “ Oh 
have mercy on me,” she cried ; “ let me not ask in 
vain ; give me a day, oh each of you, and God will 
b 2SS you for ever !” 

‘ But it was quite hopeless. Some laughed at her, 
requesting to know if she were in her right mind ; 
others pushed her away rudely for even suggesting 
such a thing ; others again thought it a good joke, 
but preferred not to join in it. Some few, however, 
seemed ready to admit the possible efficacy of the 
remedy, but were none the less unwilling to assist 
in procuring the means. Their own lives were pre- 
carious, they said ; they had much ado in order to 
provide for their families, and should not feel justi- 
fied in sparing any of their precious time. But, 
strange to say, the very people who were known to 
waste time most carelessly seemed the least willing 
to part with even an hour. The poor young wife 
grew faint at heart, and the cruel taunts she met 
with f^om some. . . .’ 

So far Lily, and no further. One of those par- 
oxysms broke the thread of her story, and before 
long that of her life She did not recover — the 
power of life was gone ; or rather, it was as a lamp 
making a few last flickering efforts, suddenly going 
out in darkness. . . . 

Years passed. Fifteen winters had gone over my 


334 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


head ; I was no longer young. I remembered at 
times Lily’s broken story, and in some hour of tender 
emotion I was one day even prevailed on to tell it 
to a friend, who thought it so admirable that he fain 
would have known the whole. 

Fifteen years ! and how little had I tried to spend 
them in a manner worthy of the lovely memory of 
her who was gone. But, strange to tell, after that 
lapse of time, a stray number of some periodical fell 
into my hands. I was startled beyond measure on 
noticing a little story entitled, ‘ The begging wife — 
a legend of Jerusalem.’ 

Could it be Lily’s story? It was, indeed, not 
quite in the manner of her telling, but unmistakably 
the same, and no other ending would have seemed 
probable. 

This, then, is the continuation : 

‘The young woman came to the door of a rich 
money-changer. Having learned her trouble he con- 
sidered awhile, looking at the matter in the light of 
a possible speculation, The dying man might have 
money, and no doubt was prepared to pa)’ hand- 
somely for what, after all, was not worth a great 
sum. How much would he give for a day ? a month ? 
a year ? Alas, the sorrowing wife must abandon her 
hopes ! — her husband was poor — very poor. 

‘ Continuing her way she met a Roman centurion. 
There was little prospect that he, a heathen, would 
have a heart for her, the Jewess. But he looked 
good-natured and she might try. 

‘ Indeed the centurion understood her better than 
she expected, for if he had not faith, he had super- 
stition enough to make him credulous. 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


335 


* “ My poor child ” he said doubtfully, stroking his 
grizzly beard, “ I would fain help thee. But you see 
this life of mine is so uncertain that I know not for 
a truth whether I have any right to call it mine. I 
may be dead to-morrow, and by Jove it would be 
w icked to grant away what I have not got ! Indeed 
I am not sure whether it would not be robbing Caesar 
of his due, for my life is sold to him. But I am 
very sorry for you, nevertheless I Shall I give you 
some money?” 

* But money was not what she wanted ; she said 
so sadly, and the centurion went his way. 

‘ She next accosted a well-to-do tradesman, the 
owner of a carpenter’s shop, employing hundreds of 
hands. That man was one of the ten lepers whom 
the Lord had cleansed, and of whom one only turned 
back to glorify God ; but he was not that one. The 
woman happened to address him with the self-same 
words with which they had called upon the Son of 
God — “ Master, have mercy on us ” ! but he knew no 
mercy. Turning to the busy scene in his shop, he 
answered, “ Woman, look at all this work ; I cannot 
nearly meet demands, and yet you expect me to give 
you of the little time there is ! Nay, you must ask 
elsewhere.” 

‘ But she importuned him : “ O master ! for Rabbi 
Ben-Miriam’s sake, who pitied you, pity me and my 
husband I” 

* The man had not expected to be thus reminded ; 
he grew red then pale, but found an answer pre- 
sently : 

‘“Well, as you seem to know that stoiy, your 
request is doubl> unfair. Don’t you see how much 


336 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


shorter my life is than that of other people, since I 
can only be said to have lived from the day I was 
healed of that leprosy ? It is really too much to ex- 
pect me to shorten a life already shortened. Get thee 
§Dne, woman ; time is too precious for further talk.” 

‘ Having left the workshop, the poor wife pre- 
sently found herself near the temple. Now, filled 
with grief though she was, she forgot not to cast her 
mite into the treasury ; and going up she met a priest 
who, having executed his office, was retiring from 
the house of God. 

‘ “ Thou God of Abraham ! ” he cried, drawing his 
garments about him as she meekly endeavoured to 
kiss the hem. “ Thou God of Abraham, Isaac, and 
J acob, listen to this woman ! Am / to be the victim 
of her mad request ? It is sorcery ! ” 

‘ “ I am neither mad nor given to sorcery,” she 
urged humbly. 

‘“Surely this is sorcery !” reiterated the priest, 
looking at her disdainfully. “ Beware, lest you be 
brought into the synagogue to be stoned !” 

‘ She next went to the house of a high-born Syrian 
of princely parentage, who had come to Jerusalem 
to enjoy his life. And he had enjoyed it, emptying 
the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. With his 
appetites blunted, he knew no longer how to waste 
his time. 

‘She was admitted. Through an inner court, a 
paradise in itself, where statues of whitest marble 
gleamed between dark - leaved shrubberies, where 
fountains played and birds united in chorus, where 
sweet flowerets steeped the air with fragrance ; through 
pillared halls hung with Tyrian purple and enriched 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


33T 


with gold and ivory ; over floors of Roman mosaic, 
and through doors opened and shut by slaves in 
gorgeous attire, — she reached at last to where the 
lord of all this grandeur was taking his luxurious 
repose after the exertion of the bath. She found 
him reclining on a couch with half-closed eyes. An 
Abyssinian slave, dark as night, was cooling the air 
about his head with a fan of peacock feathers ; while 
a Greek girl, fair as the day, stroked the soles of 
his feet with gentle touch. Both these women were 
beautiful, each after her kind, but that was not what 
the poor supplicant thought of. Still less did she 
consider that she herself, holding the mean between 
Abyssinian and Greek, united in her own person 
the beauty of both night and day, with her warm 
complexion and her lustrous eyes — that the charms 
of these women paled before hers, like stars outshone 
by the moon. 

‘“Woman,” said the young man with languid 
voice, “ it is true, I care little for life ; it is a miserable 
farce at best. But why should I present you with 
that which hangs heavy on my own hands ? I see 
no reason. Philanthropy? pooh — it is give and 
take in the world. Now, what could you give me of 
pleasure r amusement that I have not tasted to 
the full ? I loathe life ; go and leave me to myself ! ” 

‘ Crying bitterly, the poor wife left the house of 
the Syrian. 

‘ But hers was a sacred mission ; she dared not 
give up — not yet ! There was a certain niler who 
lived for his pleasure, and whose liberality invited 
others to share it. To live, with him, meant to enjoy 
and, apart f^om enjoyment, the world to his under 


538 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


standing was a blank. He had known higher aims. 
As a youth he had observed all the commandments 
and had been anxious to inherit ^le. He was that 
5ime young man who came to the Lord saying: 
'*A11 these things have I kept — ^what lack I yet?” 
But He whom he had called Good Master told him : 
'‘If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, 
and give it to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure 
in heaven; and come and follow me !” And that 
was not what the young man had expected ; for he 
had great possessions. 

‘ It was a turning-point in his life, and from that 
moment he ceased believing in an inheritance beyond 
the grave. He joined the Sadducees, who said that 
there was no resurrection, and became one of their 
most zealous followers. The poor young woman, 
therefore, could not well have asked of one more 
unlikely to give. The rich man replied contemptu- 
ously : 

* “ How foolish and surpassingly arrogant ! I have 
but this one life, and do you expect me to be lavish 
of it to any chance comer. Know that a day of my 
existence could not be paid for with all the gold of 
Ophir ! You have mistaken me, my pretty child ; 
you had better apply tc the Pharisees.” 

‘ For two full days she continued begging from 
house to house, well-nign exhausting the streets of 
Jerusalem ; but all she obtained was unkindly 
speeches, if not worse. 

‘ At the close of the second day she yielded to 
despair, falling on the ground by the gate of Damas- 
cus, tired to death and undone with grief. There 
she lay with a dull sense of misery. But suddenly 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


33S 


the well of her tears was dried, a smile like a gleam 
of sunshine lighting up her grief-worn face. Fatigue 
was nothing now ; she rose quickly and went to 
where she knew she would find the apostle. 

‘ “ Well, my daughter, and how have you sped ?** 
asked he, with loving sympathy. 

* “ Alas, Father, men are void of pity. The world 
is evil, and its sinful desires are for self only.” 

* “ You say truly. Compassion is with God alone.** 

‘“Yes, Father, and to Him therefore will I go. 

No one will give me as much as a single day, and 
many days are needed to restore my husband to my 
love. I well-nigh despaired. But suddenly I remem- 
bered that I had a life — and to judge from my great 
youth, a long life — before me. O man of God I tell 
me, may I not give of mine own abundance what 
hard-hearted men are not willing to make up be- 
tween them ? My husband is half my life to me ; 
let me give him, then, the half of my life. Let us 
live together and die together. Or, if it must be, 
let him have the whole ; I am willing to die, so that 
he may live,** 

‘Thus she entreated, the tears flowing down 
gently over her lovelit face. But the apostle touched 
her head with a hand of blessing, and said, deeply 
moved : 

‘ “ Daughter, be of good cheer ; thou hast found 
grace in the sight of God. Depart in peace ; thy 
husband is given thee, and ye shall live together I’** 

This is the story — Lily’s last Ask me not to 
describe to you the impression it made on me. I 
felt as though Lily indeed were speaking to me 
from another world. My tears fell on the page and 


340 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


I bowed my head, sorrowing not so mu'h for Lily 
as for myself 

One thing I felt certain of even then. Had the 
choice been given me, I would gladly have divided 
my* life with her ; ay, selfish as I was, I believe I 
could have given up the whole to save hers. For I 
did love her ! But now what use was the story to 
me, save that it moved my tears — a few tears 
which I was ashamed to show. 

I endeavour to conclude this letter by the fast- 
failing light. I tremble — I tremble, at the coming 
darkness. This fear, I suspect, is chiefly born from 
a feeling that a night to come — we know not how 
soon — will usher in the day of judgment Ah, fear- 
ful night, that will bring us to the day when the 
Son of Man shall come in the clouds of heaven 1 

Lost ! — it is a terrible word, enclosing all the 
horrors of hell. Am I lost — lost for ever ? Not yet, 
the for ever is to come, says a voice within. But 
again, is there hope ? is there a possibility of being 
saved ? I cannot say. Both yes and no seem 
beyond me. Sometimes I do try and cling to a 
faint shadow of hope. But it darts through my soul 
as a flash of lightning ; I am utterly unable to hold 
it fast. At times, again, when I have gone through 
seasons of deepest suffering, a sudden calm sinks 
down upon me. Dare I think it healing peace? 
But no sooner am I aware of it than it is gone, and 
I even doubt that it was. 

Of course there can be no such thing as conver- 
sion in hell. But I keep asking — might it not be 
possible that all these terrible sufferings, both of 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


341 


retrospect and of present reality, had power to pre- 
pare the soul ; that perchance at the moment when 
it is called out to appear at the great judgment, it 
will flee to the Savioui and clasp His feet for mercy 
and peace ? And if it were so, what if it were thou- 
sands of years hence, or tens of thousands, how 
infinitely precious were this hope ! Let me suffer, 
however long, if so great a salvation were possible in 
the end. 

Lily! ah, I know that she loves me, with a 
heavenly tenderness akin to the Saviour's for His 
own. And if the power of love — that wondrous 
mystery — be more than a mere fable, there is at any 
rate this one bond left between me and life. For 
I know my Lily ; that bond will never break in all 
eternity. But a bond which will neither break nor 
bring about union surely cannot exist in the sight 
of heaven I 

And again, could Lily be happy — enjoy salvation 
without me? That is another question. Can she 
be content to live when I am lost ? And will God 
deny her what she loved most on earth, what even 
now in heaven she loves most, next to Him? I 
cannot believe it. So this leaves me with a hope — 
a hope centred in Lily. Not because she has power 
to save me, but because she had been appointed to 
lead me to the feet of the Saviour Perhaps — 
perhaps it will be given her to do so in a future age. 
She may yet show me the Cross, even as I — all 
unworthy — showed it to her when she died. Did 
she not say with her last breath that we should meet 
again ? And with this sure hope she fell asleep in 
peace I Is it possible that God would have let hef 


342 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


leave me with a peace founded on an untruth, a 
miserable delusion, even at the solemn moment of 
entering His presence ? Surely it is impossible. 
So the conclusion seems to lie very near, but I dare 
not — I dare not draw it ! 

Again, also — the whole of hell is burthened with 
a feeling, veiled and but dimly understood, that there 
is a possibility of redemption before the final word 
is spoken, when all is at an end. Hope raises her 
front, however feebly — yea, a great hope. And 
surely God, being what He is, could never let millions 
of miserable souls feed on that streak of light if it 
were mere delusion — surely, surely not ! He is the 
God of justice, and we receive the due reward of our 
deeds ; but, again, He is the God of mercy and 
unspeakable tenderness, who can never delight in our 
misery. And He is the God of truth ; He cannot 
let us feed on a lie ! And yet, is it not possible 
also that delusion is part of the punishment, being, 
like everything else, the outcome of a sin -deluded 
life ? Ah, woe is me, where is that hope which but 
a moment since illumined my soul as with a reflection 
of eternity ? it is gone — gone, like a false dawn 
swallowed up in night ! . . . . 

I give up. My heart would break, but nothing 
ever breaks here. Hearts here are strong to bear 
any amount of misery. 

No, we are not so fortunate as to break our 
hearts. I was thinking of something else. . . . 
There may be a hope left — nothing certainly could 
be much worse. . . . Things are desperately fast 
here, and not made for rupture. All is cause and 
effect, past act and consequence. Indeed, since 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


30 


the word ‘hell’ seems to have become objectionable 
with well-bred people, let me suggest their calling 
this place The World of Consequences ! 

Have you any idea that I am writing in an agony 
of despair? You would shrink back from me in 
horror could you see me, though perchance you still 
call me friend. May heaven preserve you from ever 
seeing me ! 

But I forget, I was trying to finish this letter. It 
may be long, very long, before you hear of me again, 
if ever ! I still will call you friend, yet it will be 
natural that if all break, friendship too must vanish. 

Farewell, then, my friend. Please God, we shall 
never meet ! 

I wrote the above as the awful night was spread- 
ing her wings, — oh how I dreaded its settling ! Every 
renewed darkness brings new agony, new despair. 
And as soon as the light has vanished entirely, hell 
is swept of everything with which imagination had 
endowed it : towns, castles, houses, parks, churches, 
clubs, and all places of amusement — everything has 
vanished, leaving a desert void, and souls unclothed 
of aught but bare being. Hell is then like a vast 
dungeon where man and woman, rich and poor, 
crawl about in utter loneliness. While the light 
lasted, dusky though at best it is, one could arrange 
oneself according to one’s fancy, having everything 
one listed, unreal though it were — mere shadows of 
thought : still it is a kind of occupation to surround 
oneself with imagined possessions ; but this terrible 
night admits of no such jugglery. It leaves me 
naked, poor, forsaken, homeless, friendless — a prey 


LETTERS FROM HELU 


544 


to bitter reality. I shrink together within my 
miserable self, not knowing where I am, or who 
may be near me. Nor do I care to know, filled with 
the one thought that I am in the place of lost souls 
■ — lost myself. 

Evil thoughts keep settling round my heart, 
beleaguering it as the ruthless Romans did the un- 
happy city of David. This siege, too, ends with a 
terrible destruction, an agony of suffering, the like 
of which the world has never seen. 

As before, I passed the long night shuddering, 
trembling for outward cold, but with a horrible fire 
within. You say in the world, and say truly, that 
there are conflicts in which even strong men fail. 
Alas, the hardest conflict now seems a happy condi- 
tion, for here struggling is at an end, as being too 
good for hell ! There is only raving and madness 
here, — a kind of spiritual suicide even, — but no strug- 
gling for victory. The soul here is a victim, for- 
saken by the powers of good. Every little devil is 
permitted to fasten his miserable claws on the help- 
less mind. Understand me, it is a figure of speech. 
There are no devils in this place save our own evil 
desires, passions, and sinful thoughts. Satan at 
times is here, but, thanks be to God, not yet has he 
final power over the soul. 

In this very night he was present — come to look 
on the miserable beings he delights in considering 
his. Though not always, yet generally, he chooses 
darkness for his visits. As a sudden whirlwind, felt 
but not seen, he is among us, and hell is frozen with 
horror. All the millions of souls then shrink to- 
gethei in an ag:my of unutterable fear, knowing that 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


34 1 

one is among them who never knew pity and ruth — > 
the great destroyer, ready to destroy them. And 
this is the dreadful thing, that, though certain of his 
presence — ay, feeling it — not one of us can say, see 
herel see there ! You hear a crackling as of fire — 
serpents of flame keep darting across the tenebrous 
space, showing his path ; but where is he^ the dread 
enemy? His consuming eye at this very moment 
may be upon you, gloating over your trembling soul. 

I will be silent — I cannot dwell on these horrors. 
Be it enough to say that again and again I felt my- 
self in the very grasp of the evil one, who seemed to 
dally with my anguish. It took all manner of forms 
— suffice it to give one : I suddenly felt as though I 
were a bottomless ocean, in which my sins were 
swimming about like fish. And the devil sat on the 
shore, grinning and throwing his lines, using now 
this evil desire, now that, as a bait He was an 
expert, catching fish upon fish. Suddenly the float 
disappeared, dragged down into the deep — a good 
catch no doubt. He brought it up triumphantly — 
O Lord of pity, my own heart, bleeding and writh- 
ing 1 It was horrible, horrible I Let me drop the 
veil 

This too is imagination of course, or, at worst, 
Satan’s own evil pastime with the hopeless mind. 
But, nevertheless, what is there more real than death ? 
and I suffered a hundred deaths in that night. 

At last, at last — I know not after what length of 
time — hell was given up again to its own state of 
misery — rising to it with a gasp as out of a fearful 
dream. 

Then I felt it a relief almost to be but a prey 


346 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


Dnce more to my own evil thoughts. Bad as it was, 
to be left to myself seemed gain. As before, the 
whole of my past life was unrolled to my sight, sin 
upon sin, failure upon failure, gnawing at my h< art 
till it was but a single festering wound. 

But with all this suffering, a longing was blended 
more deep, more burning, than any I had felt be- 
fore. Not for the life behind me, — the world with 
its pleasures was dead, — but for a living soul I 
thirsted — a soul to understand me. Lily, my father. 
Aunt Betty — from them I was separated to eternity, 
a great gulf being fixed between them and me ; 
but my mother — my own mother — there was only 
death between me and her, and a wondrous truth 
lies hidden in that word — love is stronger than 
death. That was the closest bond after all — that 
between my mother and me — the bond of Nature ! 
What in all the universe could be better than a 
mother s love ! With a thirsty longing my thoughts 
turned to her — O mother, where art thou ? 

And here again a great pain side by side with 
yearning. How badly I had rewarded her love in 
life ! Had I not been her one and all ? but she, in 
truth, was very little to me. How wrongly I had 
judged her, often thinking meanly of her motives, 
deeming her cold and worldly — a selfish nature to 
which the appreciation of society was more than 
the heart’s goodness — to which Christianity even was 
a mere matter of propriety ; in which faith and 
charity were not strong enough to teach her that self 
and the world should be sacrificed, but which hesi- 
tated not to sacrifice even the holiest on the world’s 
altars to the advantage of self I 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


347 


How wickedly I had thought of her, ungrateful 
wretch that I was ! I grieved for it now ; surely she 
had been the best of mothers — the most perfect of 
women, loving and good ! 

TK^se painful thoughts unnerved me — I felt weak 
and softened. ‘ O mother, dear, mother ! ’ my heart 
kept crying with the wail of a child. I care not if 
you laugh at me, but I had come to this — I longed 
for her with the simple longing of the hungry babe 
for the mother’s breast 

For the first time the desire was strong in me to 
return to the upper world — an indescribable power 
drawing me irresistibly. The ghost nature was 
fluttering within me, lifting its wings, urging me to 
go ; but my yearning found vent in the cry only, 
‘ Mother, mother 1 * 

A faint streak of dawn. My eye fell on a cower- 
ing figure, ill-shaped and moaning, sunk in a heap 
not far from me. An impossible, frightful thought 
stole through me at the sight My soul heaved like 
a storm-lashed sea. 

The figure moved and turned. . . . God in heaven, 
that terrible face, ghastly and distorted, it was . . , 
it was . . . my mother’s! 

I dashed away in headlong flight — I could, I 
would not believe it. . . . 

But alas, my friend, what matters my believing it 
or not — it was my mother I 

Poor, poor mother! This is the crushing blow, 
if such there be here. I thought I had known the 
worst — but this is awful, awful ! 

What more shall I say ? Words are powerless — 


348 


LETTERS FROM HELL. 


the despair of hell you cannot conceive. It were 
poor consolation that, being equally miserable now, 
we might weep together, uphold 6ne another, com- 
forting each other in pain. But even that is denied 1 
Tears we have not — sympathy there is not ; at least, 
I have not found it — and naturally, since love is 
ttterly unknown here. We can only cower side by 
side, through ages to come, — each taken up with self. 
Fellowship ? Nay, but it is worse than desert lone- 
liness. We have not a word to say to one another ; 
we dread to look at each other. Everything between 
us is cold, dead — dead. We have our own agony 
of fire, each within the soul ; but that fire which goes 
forth to warm another is as a burnt-out crater filled 
with the ashes of despair. . . . 

I can no more . • . fare thee well 1 


THE IKD. 


INDEX 


A. 

Awful vision, 245. 

A “ ball ” in hell, 206. 

A death experience and beyond, 1. 

“ Adventures ” in hell, 273. 

Abyss, the fathomless, 29. 

A guilty spirit haunting the old 
home, 280. 

An evening with a dozen youths, 
107. 

Amusement, 127. 

An infernal carousal, 10. 

“Aunt” Betty’s letters, 301. 

B. 

Beginning to feel at home, 46. 

Books in hell, 94. 

C. 

Cain, a cursed fugitive in hell, 132. 

Childhood, memories of it awaken- 
ed, 167. 

Closing his last “ letter ” “ as the 
awful night was spreading her 
wings,” 340. 

Club dinner, a, 50. 

“ Conversion in hell of course 
there can be no such thing, 340. 

Crowds continually flocking in at 
the “ Gates of Hopelessness,” 164. 

D. 

Darkness increasing— I tremble at 
it, 340. 

Darkness, the, how shall I describe 
it? 15. 

Description of an earthly passion, 
and w^hat came of it, 61. 

Description of hell when the light 
has vanished utterly, 343. 

Devil? Yes, there is a dev'l, and it 
is he who drags men to hell, 204. 

Died and in hell, 6. 

E. 

Earthly mercies recalled with bitter | 
angtiish, 2.37. 


Endless chain of sin and misery t« 
which a single act may give rise, 

' 106. 

I Experience, the, of a distinguished 

j character, 181. 

I 

I Gazing into Paradise, 246. 

I Good deeds even weigh on the soiD. 
in hell, 143. 

H. 

Hell, a local description of, 28. 

Hell, the law of, 32. 

Hell not without a “ church esta-.^- 
lishment,” 215. 

Hell yields a terrible knowledge- • 
how blessedly fruitful might have 
been, 147. 

Horror of horrors ! he meets and 
recognizes his “mother,” 347. 

How time passes in hell, 74. 

K. 

Kings, princes, etc., the most abject 
creatures in the realm of death, 
134. 

L. 

“ Light has all but vanished,” 330. 

Light slowly breaking, alternating 
with darkness, 25. 

“ Lily’s last story a pathetic 
one. 

“ Lost 1” it is a terrible word, en- 
closing all the horrors of hell, 340. 

Lucifer mad because some sinners 
are so hard to ruin, 96. 

M. 

Memories, 74. 

Memory of the visit of the Son of 
God to preach to the spirits in 
prison, 129. 

Music, a power of torment bound 
up in it, 285. 


350 


INDEX, 


N. 

No '* flowers ” in hell, 212. 

P. 

Parties in the world of despair, 54. 

I'ost-oflice, the, in hell, 153. 

Prey to bitter memories, 100. 

R. 

Remembrance of sin, 18. 

Retrospection, 34. 

Revisiting, in memory, the Holy 
I, and and the scenes of Christ’s 
'■He and sufferings, 271. 

S. 

Satan’s residence, and the abode of 
damned souls, 29. 

Search for his lost “Annie ” finally 
successful— but the disappoint- 
ment ! 231. 

hooiety of nell, the horror of exist- 
rji.je there, Il4. 


Songs of glory heard in the dis- 
tance, 82. 

T. ‘ 

“The City of Politicians,’’ 317. 

The deep stillness reigning in hell, 
113. 

The great city of the Jews— a 
world apart, 312. 

“ The town of the Inquisition,’’ 321. 

Time, how passed in hell, 175. 

Touching description of an earthly 
love, 294. 

The writer’s encounter with (uie he 
had ruined, 196. 

The “great gulf fixed,’’ 253. 

V. 

Very aged people seen, 160. 

W. 

Warning sent to his brothers and 
sisters still on earth, 138. 







0 


1 


^ iO* ^ 


0 N 



w ^ ^ 

\ri'^ 

V\ 1 1 JH 


Pt V 

^ Q^ 


^ ^ <■ a* C‘ . 

^ v.** >w ^ *^‘ 

/h ^ ‘-^ \\ ‘ « 

/>) o c, .fc^Swwfe^ ^ 


^^V'N>S? 5 r* > ^ 

7 - * 0 N 0 ’ 

C‘ -O' ■ 





/ <^\> a> — ^■pWr — -y 

* A <'^7^-'J^ 

.V , 0 N (. -<^ ^ 

gs. ■>'„S^ ->»,. « ' 


^ !► «b ^ « 4 . 

% ' “ • ‘ " / 
'I ^ ."^ 


. •".*«. '-"o, ” • ' \ 0 ~ ' • ‘ ' 

a''” : ^S»'. 0 ^ ' " 

V^‘ 3 -'"/ "V' 

. 0 " ^ * 0 ^ * ‘ V v> s ^ 

ry 7 :^. 






<%. NI /** 











O y «r r\ ^ , ''^WA/^'*^' - 

. \' S «► * / ^/> ^ ^ N 0 ^ 

i». .V. ^ ” 




s ’ 'O' 0 « X 





z, ^ 


c. IP - • I 

C^ ,/ 


■x'' -Si, ' " .■ 5 = ■'•'‘js. ° 

-i'" .^ ° JL ‘ * ' ‘ " 'f • 'IL*'!. ' '^\ 

-OV^' 




0^'' ^ V 1 B ^ 

>%r. ^ ^ 

/Pr> ^ 

• n '' • ° 





Jt. ‘V Ki 


« ^ 


’’l‘'/%“'Vx”'''%'V'’' a'*'' 

= ? . «a; qX '^me?-:. ■^. ••» 



r^ .<4^ .V. <k- ^ '-v* 


o 

z 






A**' 

O 

,♦ ■^d, % -«rs-. 

rO' \L^ ■, 


^ >K* 

♦ 

■v f / ■ '>>’'0^ 

•^o > 

® 

tt ''4>^ 

* xy 
y 

^ • < I/AO. » 

o 


U. 


’’/ x^Tr>-''y’ 

» r <2 * _ , . 


'' 0 °^ 
® ?T^ <■ ^ 0 ^ 


0 4> A. 


*' 

✓ 

A 

" 

\ 0 ^ 


V c ^ 


^ 1 CxV 

V ^ 

^ V 

y 





